


Dire Oversight

by Ezlebe



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Awkward Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Diplomacy, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Frottage, Gen, Gratuitous Light Saber Violence, M/M, reluctant partnership
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-07-25 08:01:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 53,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7524763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezlebe/pseuds/Ezlebe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Thvala has a long tradition of binding political alliances with marriage,” Captain Pforn says, looking up from the heretofore agreed contract and folding his hands over the data pad. He has a smile like what he said isn’t absolutely senseless, “It is the will of Sovereign Andeles that you and Prince Gheralt fulfill this aspect of the contract.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Thvala has a long tradition of binding alliances with marriage,” Captain Pforn says, looking up from the heretofore agreed contract and folding his hands over the data pad. He has a smile like what he said isn’t absolutely senseless. “It is the will of Sovereign Andeles that you and Prince Gheralt fulfill this aspect of the contract.”

Hux takes a breath, looking slowly to the current display of Thvalian royalty in a manner that might hopefully be termed contemplative, rather than murderous. The Prince is little more than a masculine clone of his mother, matching pastels and gilded, towering crowns standing stark against dark skin, and if it were any other circumstances, or in fact ten seconds ago, Hux would think him very attractive, but now he just wants to burn him alive.

“Do you find the binding acceptable, General?”

Hux tilts his head in a show of thought, very carefully pushing aside the sudden, overwhelming urge to use the blaster at his side. He isn’t sure who it would be better aimed at: the foreign affairs consultant, or the hopeful ally. He takes a slow breath, “As always, Captain Pforn, I am eager to do anything for the First Order.”

“Sir,” Pforn says, a twist of a frown settling across his lips. “You sound unsure.”

Hux blinks slowly to avoid glaring at the imbecile. “I am only…”

A muffled thump interrupts the slow search for an excuse, and Hux glances out of the thin slip of privacy glass to find Kylo Ren just outside the room, apparently having tired of lurking and now cowing the Sovereign’s assistant into a fearful submission. Wonderful, Hux is going to have to deal with those ruffled feathers, too, in addition to carefully sabotaging this situation and…

He glances at the window again, a truly terrible idea forming into a solid mistake. It is hardly the perfect compromise, but Hux has few other options, so Ren will prove himself of use for once.

“General?” Pforn prompts, his voice suddenly a grating pitch against Hux’s ears. “Do you agree to – “

“Captain Pforn,” Hux snaps, looking down to make eye-contact with Pforn and setting his mouth into a pinched scowl. “You forget your place.”

Pforn visibly blanches, “Y-yes, sir? I apologize, sir.”

“I am already affianced, is the main issue,” Hux says, squaring his shoulders and narrowing his eyes into something more quietly disappointed, pursing his mouth into a melancholy frown. “I am only unsure of how to tell him. He will be terribly… devastated – he can be so emotional.”

“It is for the good of the First Order,” Pforn says, his tone only a few bars south of outright insubordination. “Personal dalliance bows to duty. Sir.”

“I consider him both,” Hux says, glancing quickly behind Pforn in a manner he hopes is more furtive than smug. He lifts his chin, “You may tell him, Captain. You are worth less to the First Order than I, wouldn’t you agree?”

Pforn blinks, “Excuse me, sir?”

The door slides open with a deceptively pleasant hiss only an instant later, Ren stalking in with such a hulking, sullen presence that it seems the spirit of melodrama itself has called on him. “General. I am done.”

“A few moments longer, Ren,” Hux says, waving a placating hand in the direction of the now frowning Sovereign and her progeny. She has been unusually silent, but the narrowing of her pale eyes, the pinch of her dark lips, belies that she has already caught on to who Hux is claiming as fiancé.“I was just about to call you.”

Ren’s head tilts just slightly, instantly suspicious. “…Were you.”

Hux nods shortly, turning his impulse to smirk into a stiff frown. “Captain Pforn has something to tell you.”

“Does he,” Ren says, helmet shifting a few centimeters downward again to look at Pforn.

“Ah,” Pforn intones, visibly swallowing and glancing down to the table with a very slow inhale, eyes widening in time with his breath. “Oh. Oh, I – um, oh.”

“Enthralling,” Ren says, gaze returning to Hux with the clear intent of sarcasm.

“Devastated, you said,” Pforn murmurs, so quiet that it could be to himself. “Emotional.”

“Terribly,” Hux says, tipping his head to the side and then glancing quickly back up to Ren; he lifts a hand and sets his knuckles against his chin, as if in his own thoughts, and taps subtly with his index finger.

As always, the first hint of Ren into his mind is discomforting, almost like a headache without the pain, but he learned long ago to swallow any sort of flinch. It would be embarrassing to give Ren that much, but especially so in front of this moronic figurehead with little more than care for outdated modes of negotiation.

 _‘A rare day indeed when you invite me in,’_ Ren thinks, his projected voice nothing like the growl of the mask or the stilt of his speech.

 _‘They want me to marry their son,’_ Hux responds curtly, ignoring the snide greeting with every ounce of self control. _‘A bid for political clout within the First Order. I will not be complying.’_

_‘What does that have to do with me?’_

_‘I’m more prepared to draw your debt than tie myself to a child for the rest of my life,’_ Hux thinks, feeling a thread of disgust weave its way into his thoughts and threaten to twist at his mouth. The son is more than old enough, at least in his mid-twenties, but Hux would rather choke than admit the match anything more than wholly unsuitable.

“L-Lord Ren, sir,” Pforn says, taking a shaky inhale and standing slowly from his seat. He turns on a heel, folding both hands at his back, and raises his chin in attempt to catch Ren’s vague eye-line. “I must inform you of a recent development regarding the good of the First Order. I hope you find it in yourself to see the General’s duty before yourself.”

_‘What is this fool **saying**?’_

_‘You’re being used as an excuse,’_ Hux thinks, glancing sideways and making sure to maintain his visible expression just this side of mildly upset. It is primarily in the brows, with a slight pinching of his lips. _‘Keep up.’_

Ren squares his shoulders, looking shiftily toward Hux in a manner that could easily be taken as response to either conversation. _‘Where is that exacting control of expression when speaking to Supreme Leader?’_

 _‘Shut it and answer the moron,’_ Hux responds, feeling his jaw clench at just the mere mention of Snoke. ‘ _You're making yourself look dim.’_

“Out with it,” Ren growls aloud, tilting his own chin up in mockery of the captain.

Pforn takes another slow inhale, nodding to himself and visibly hunching inward. “General Hux will not be able to fulfill the prospects of your engagement. Please accept this without behaving irrationally.”

Hux looks back to Pforn with a frown, forgetting his act for a moment in the face of such idiocy from a man supposedly esteemed for diplomacy. Pforn will be lucky if Ren doesn’t wrench his spine from his ribs for the sheer boldness of the statement.

 _‘I want a speeder for this,_ ’ Ren thinks, mask tilting as if still glowering at Pforn, which he very well may be doing. _‘Designed by you. Personally. Not your little band of inventors.’_

Hux blinks slowly in silent disbelief.  _‘You're not serious. Is that all you have to say?’_

_‘It must also match the Upsilon.’_

_‘…Fine,’_ Hux agrees, quietly relieved that Ren can be satisfied by little more than a toy for participating in this charade _. ‘You truly are just a brat in a mask.’_

“I assure you that anything your current betrothed offers, General Hux, my son is equally capable of satisfying,” the Sovereign says, interjecting and tilting her head with a pretty sneer. She folds her hands on the table and aims a frown toward Ren. “From what I have seen, this one is little more than a voice in a mask. A droid playing human – surely, you'd enjoy someone with more… warmth.”

Pforn, for his part, is visibly stunned before he recoils in visible horror, both hands curling together at his chest in premature defense. “Sovereign, please, don’t – “

The holotable abruptly splits in two, an elegant crack forming down the center of the specialty display before sparks and glass shards flee in equal measure from Ren’s great and powerful temper. Hux reflexively covers his eyes, but there is miraculously little glass embedded in his form, and feels a deep sigh well within his chest – another bill to add to the heap.

“Even as a droid, I offer greater strength than your pathetic son,” Ren growls, his presence clouding the room with Force-supported frustration, shadow impossibly reaching across the room to loom over the Sovereign. “I will not be insulted, especially not by a disgraced Senator.”

“A figure such as the General doesn’t need _strength_ ,” the Sovereign says, holding her condescending tone and seemingly unconcerned with the sudden destruction of her gilded meeting chamber. She gestures with a curled hand at her son, who straightens his shoulders and flashes a similarly smug smirk. “He needs support; a good partner must provide opportunity. Gheralt is a far better prospect in that respect than a creature that can hardly control itself in the face of reason.”

Ren responds with little more than heaving, angry breaths, fingers curling into tight firsts at his sides, though his right is drifting dangerously near his saber. The offense felt is undoubtedly real, and Hux is mildly relieved the Sovereign is aiming to be petty; he’s not sure how well this would have gone should Ren have been made to truly play act.

The Sovereign looks sideways at Hux, satisfied with her own abuses and raising a thin brow. “I find it difficult to believe you find any real use in this match, General.”

“I’m unsure how marriages normally happen in this system,” Hux says, allowing a low huff to emerge from his throat as he draws the room’s attention. “But I am marrying Lord Ren simply due to personal affection.”

A strange burst of foreign emotion strikes across Hux’s mind before it forms into disbelieving words, _‘I thought you were a strategist.’_

 _‘Quiet,’_ Hux responds, sending an utterly false look of indulgence toward Ren. He hopes it reads like ire from the inside of his mind.

Pforn looks utterly flabbergasted, eyebrows raising up his forehead and near to his shorn scalp. He has never officially been stationed on the _Finalizer_ , but Hux is certain that rumors fly far outside of his control. It's likely he more expected to hear that Hux was ordered to…

Blast it. He should have used that cover.

“How banal,” the Sovereign mutters, lips pinching into a tight, dark line of disapproval. She glances shortly to Ren, then to Hux, and finally settles somewhere at the middle distance, visibly in thought.

“I had no idea, sir,” Pforn says, hands folding and folding again over themselves where they set awkwardly on the remains of the table. He takes a sharp breath, then exhales in a slow, insulting manner. “Admittedly, the request for adjoining rooms was rather –“

“Do not be absurd,” Hux says, interrupting the statement with a low scoff of disapproval and a carefully aimed scowl. “I am not so unprofessional.”

“Basic security procedure,” Ren agrees, his shoulders and back visibly stretching beneath that hulking cloak, much to the apparent concern of Pforn; his anxious leaning back is hardly subtle.

“I will remember this gap in your education at your next bid for promotion, Captain,” Hux says, straightening his gloves and only half-exaggerating at the threat. Pforn will never again come so far as to council for his next promotion – demotion, perhaps, after Hux writes up a formal complaint of this entire affair.

“S-sir, I had – ”

The Sovereign interrupts the blubbering with a dainty cough into her hand, raising her chin in Hux’s direction. “General Hux, if I may.”

Hux turns to her with a short inhales, his suspicion that he's still expected to take her son’s hand only worsening when he catches her serene smirk. “Of course, Sovereign.”

“I propose a trial period – an attempt to meet the customs of both our… _cultures_ ,” the Sovereign says, her tone swelling with condescension and bordering on outright offensive. She is under some delusion that Hux should be more agreeable to giving up his personal freedom; he's not from a nominal royal family, unlike _some_ people, but apparently that's only an issue for him. “You're due to tour the rest of the planet for the next standard week, so I propose Gheralt act as a guide. If you can build affection for your current fiancé, then you can surely feel the same for my son.”

Hux can practically feel the desperate look from Pforn, who seems well enough aware how much of his future is dependent on a profitable end to this visit. Hux's own career is on the line, as well, with the strategic value of Thvala’s place on the trade route and its many durasteel and alusteel fabrication plants; he cannot simply rebuff this offer in without looking an uncooperative fool.

Ren is enough of that for an entire regiment.

“I accept on the accordance that you gather an alternative to this _tradition_ ,” Hux says, pressing his mouth into a comfortably stern line and glancing significantly at Prince Gheralt, tempted to request Ren make a violent punctuation to the sentence, but that would only add another tally to his now exponentially growing debt. “The First Order and Thvala offer more than simple matrimony to solidify such a partnership.”

“We will reconvene at week's end with secondary alternatives,” the Sovereign says, agreeing with an oddly familiar tip of her head, finishing the statement with a gesture of an upturned hand. “I trust that you, General, will make the best choice for your organization.”

~

“I need a stiff drink,” Hux murmurs, kneeling at the glass cabinet and shoving aside unfamiliar liquors, pausing only when he finds a pale bottle of veritable rotgut from Talus. He pulls it out with a low hum, running a thumb over the label, “Ah yes, you’ll do just fine, darling.”

“Do not refer to me so disrespectfully, General.”

Hux slowly lifts his head, pausing his latest search for tumblers to peek over the edge of the cabinet. “I had hardly planned to.”

Ren’s shoulders fall just slightly – a satisfy slump inward. “Hux.”

“A sad state of affairs that your Force isn’t strong enough to rewind time,” Hux says, standing with a glass in one hand and the decanter in the other. He carefully sets the glass on the edge of a convenient sill, then cracks open the rotgut seal with a satisfying twist of his wrist. “Second time today it would have been useful.”

“You should have simply declined.”

“Declining is not an option with this system,” Hux says, pouring a generous portion and wondering if he might find some grenadine – doubtful. “As you'll see, it holds far too much promise.”

“Promise enough to stage a farce of an engagement?” Ren says, his voice seeming short even through the modulation, though that could simply be some manner of projection. “What if Supreme Leader discovers it?”

Hux pauses, glass held only a few centimeters from his mouth as a new worry surfaces, markedly more dangerous in nature. “Are you disallowed marriage?”

“Not… expressly,” Ren says, turning away with a heavy tic of his visor toward the ground. “I cannot imagine it's ever presented an issue.”

“Calm yourself, then,” Hux says, relaxing and taking a long gulp of the rotgut. It burns as it crosses along his tongue and down his throat; a stinging assurance that it might actually slow his mind enough for sleep tonight. “He may catch wind of it in his networks, but I am certain he will understand my tactic of avoidance.”

“Presumptuous,” Ren says, hands curling at his sides and turning sharply on his heel, clearly attempt to glower through his helmet when he steps forward a few more paces. “Just as your dragging me into this without warning.”

“She was meant to yield the moment you nearly killed the lot of us,” Hux says, running a hand through his hair and exhaling in a harsh breath that does little to relax him. He looks back up to Ren, almost more uneasy now than before, and takes a long sip of the burning alcohol, willing it to haze his mind that much quicker. “How was I to know the Sovereign is the only mortal in the Galaxy without the instinct of fear?”

Ren stays silent, then exhales harsh enough for it to be audible, “Aside from you.”

“I fear, Ren,” Hux says, tightening his jaw and letting a sneer cross his face, directed firmly at the far Capitol building. He expected to come down here and manipulate an already sympathetic leader, not stumble into a diplomatic snare. “I fear the horror of arranged, political marriage, a fate worse than death. I’m military, not royalty – I should not be forced to suffer this simply because the First Order doesn't have its own version of a Gheralt.”

“Are you implying that you are the royal body of the First Order?”

“No, you imbecile,” Hux says, turning back to Ren and narrowing his eyes, lifting his glass and gesturing angrily at his likely judging visage. “I am stating we don’t have one, because it is _archaic_ – insult fully intended.”

“That part of me is long gone,” Ren says, the growl of his modulation seeming to intensify; his shoulders visibly tightening beneath his cloak.

Hux suppresses the urge to scoff with another sip of his drink. He lets it linger and burn for a long moment before swallowing, a smirk crossing his lips as he looks blithely into Ren’s faceless helm. “Did it ever exist?”

Ren declines to answer, his reticence making him appear as much a droid as the Sovereign accused him of being.

“I hardly think you ever resembled Gheralt,” Hux continues, unable to imagine Ren in the delicate jewelry and flowing, glittery pastel robes adorning the Prince of Thvala.

“Recuse yourself,” Ren says, lifting a hand and making to change the subject, seemingly eager to abandon the shallower line of thought. “Claim a distraction from your duties.”

Hux presses his mouth into a frown, slightly angrier than the mild offense should garner. “If even that child, Thanisson, can balance both, so can I.”

Ren falls silent for a long moment, seemingly surprised, then tilting his head as if to more easily catch Hux’s eye. “Are many of the First Order wedded?”

“I would say a fair majority,” Hux says, glancing down to his data pad with a half-formed thought to make an example of the many invitations he has declined, often with the completely fabricated excuse of perceived favoritism. He’s never been particularly eager to sit through untold hours of soppy vows that should have went out of favor around the time the Old Republic was destroyed. He sighs, taking another drink and looking back to Ren, “Might you implant some inclination to choose Pforn as the happy husband?”

“I could,” Ren says, “But the idea is so distant that it might just as easily also rend their minds.”

“Inconvenient,” Hux says, leaning back and flexing his hand against the fretful nature of his own thoughts. The Sovereign has too much influence in this system, and among those bloody Centrists, to simply terminate on accident. His only hope seems to be turning this deal into some perceived personal offense, and make sure that she finds another solution in some willingness to maintain her unofficial position.

“General,” Ren says, his booted feet visibly shuffling for a scant moment with some untold feeling. He exhales heavily, the breath a wash of static. “I could more easily replace my own identity; if you call for your… legitimate partner, then I can make the Thvalians believe it’s – ”

“I don’t have a partner, Ren,” Hux interrupts, glancing up from his glass with a frown. He huffs lowly, a thread of disbelief winding into his tone. “I’m a little worried for your supposedly mystical powers of observation.”

“I am not with you every hour of every cycle,” Ren says, stepping forward with a needless tilt of his head downward, an obvious attempt to appear superior. “Have you contemplated accepting the proposal? It could be your last chance at this age.”

“You hardly have any room to cast stones at my lack,” Hux says, the urge to throw his near-empty glass at that swelled, metal head only growing with every next impudent word. He sneers, peeking into the dark visor of Ren’s eyes. “ _Darling_.”

Ren visibly twitches at the diminutive, hands tightening into loose fists at his sides. “I do not allow myself to form attachments.”

“Nor do I,” Hux says, smirking only a little bitterly as he raises his drink to finish the dregs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why wasn’t I part of this meeting?” Ren says, his voice surly even through the modulation, words getting short with temper.
> 
> “You deemed it a waste of your time,” Hux says, nervously pulling at the dark sleeve of the unfamiliar jacket and still feeling a significant discomfort, helped not at all by Ren’s markedly odd attention to it. “I believe Mitaka said your excuse was something to the tune of the Order being incompetent if we need your input.”
> 
> Ren is quiet for a long moment, though his heavy boots echo across the stone floor when he uncurls from the table and stands with a short stretch of his shoulders. “You shouldn’t send him.”

The next morning greets Hux with a dry mouth and an aching dehydration headache, his spine cracking as he turns to stretch forward out of an unfamiliar chair and set his feet along the floor. He blearily glances across the strange room, momentarily baffled until he finds a dark mass only a few meters away, disrupted by a shiny visor, and gives a low sigh as he reaches up to dig his fingers hard into his eyes. The returning memory of why he's waking up in such discomfort is enough to make him turn around and open that cabinet a second time.

“We are due to leave for the next city in less than seventeen minutes,” Ren says, standing from his seat on a decorated table and tilting his head with an odd jut of his chin. “The Thvalians have readied a low-atmo shuttle in the palace courtyard.”

Hux stares a few more moments, desperately trying to find those details in the depth of his aching mind – last night was the first time in years that he’s drank more than a polite social glass, and the shame is almost worse than the physical pain of his suffering. He dreads what seems to have happened in the time since his moment of weakness. “What happened to the _Upsilon_?”

“The Sovereign stepped in, her will seemingly unquestioned,” Ren says, speaking slowly and pausing for a few moments, almost as if reluctant, only to exhale in a pair of grisly huffs that might be some sort of laugh. “She has decided close quarters with Gheralt will be the quickest way to develop affection. I believe someone should tell her you're incapable.”

Hux inhales slowly and shifts his hand a few centimeters upward, rubbing a short circle at the center of his forehead. He glances up, just under his palm, “Where did you even come by this itinerary?”

“Pforn sent it to you,” Ren says, gesturing with his chin toward the floor; it seems Hux’s data pad has been thrown there, now lain out on the floor near the side of the chair.

Hux feels a prickle of frustration break through his headache, “You broke into my things.”

“You’ve eschewed your duties,” Ren says, nudging the data pad with an invisible hand until the edge strikes ungently against Hux’s toes. “I should not have had to.”

“One day,” Hux begins, speaking slowly as he awkwardly leans down to the pick up the data pad, “I will enjoy blasting that helmet right off.”

Ren seems unconcerned with the threat, barely shifting on his feet. “And I taking your head from your shoulders.”

Hux resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead looking to the data pad and opening the screen with a short grimace curling at his lips. The messages are there just as Ren promised, though Pforn included a few more pertinent details of specific ports and security measures; additionally, it seems Hux is expected to take a meal and spend an hour of _leisure_ time each day with Gheralt.

He clicks the screen closed and reaches up to run a hand through his hair, digging fingernails into his scalp and trying to abate the anxious panic clawing up his throat. “It may come sooner than we think.”

“An extreme reaction,” Ren says, the shifting shadows of his visor expressing some version of curiosity. “You find death preferable to marriage?”

“I have my reasons,” Hux mutters, ignoring the jarring creak of his hips when he forces himself to his feet; he swallows unsteadily when his mind seems to stay static in the chair. “See yourself out. I will find my own way to the courtyard.”

Ren is quiet after command, then summarily drops back down to the same place he was when Hux woke, tilting his head with unseen expression. He laces his fingers together, slowly cracking his knuckles, and folds them together on his lap; evidently, he is going to be contrary for the sheer pleasure of it. 

Hux turns on his heel toward the refresher before he can say the hundred scathing things striking through his mind. He doesn’t need to lower himself any further toward Ren’s sub-steerage level.

The quick shower hardly makes him look less of a hungover ghoul, his eyes sunken as if with sickness, but that might aid him in the long run. Gheralt is undoubtedly as power-hungry as his mother, but hopefully he will be a few meters more shallow; if judging by her comments toward Ren, it's not a particularly deep pool.

He pulls on the clothing set aside for this mission, and others like it, every piece dark and not unlike the uniform he so recently slept in, but lacking the severe cut or announcing patches of rank or creed. He feels oddly naked without them, but he hadn’t been able to disagree when the advice had been mostly for his safety - Ren can stop a bolt with supposed ease, but it's always easier to set precautionary measures. He gathers the uniform into a neat, perfectly folded mass and tucks it into his pack, opening the door with a new resignation settling on his mind. It will be nearly impossible to rationally deny taking the assigned time with Gheralt when he’s already accounted and dismissed any reason for it.

Ren barely glances up when Hux walks past, sitting cross-legged on the table and head stuck in something on his data pad, but he’s outright staring when Hux turns around. He tips his head, “Where is your uniform?”

“Inappropriate for even this barely Republic planet,” Hux says, and slowly, begrudgingly closes the clasps of his pack after slipping his secondary, unnetworked data pad between the folds; his uniform will probably be locked away like some sort of secret until he steps back onto the _Upsilon_. “Your ensemble was deemed neutral enough.”

Ren needlessly glances down to his own chest, as if to judge for himself, then looks back up, “I wouldn’t change.”

“We were well enough aware of that, too,” Hux says, locking away the rest of his effects with his print and pulling on his gloves. He looks up, raising an eyebrow as he sets the pack onto the waiting arms of a small treaded droid. "It's not as if you were there to provide opinion."

“Why wasn’t I?” Ren says, his voice becoming surly even through the modulation, words getting short with temper.

“You deemed it a waste of your time,” Hux says, absently pulling at the dark sleeves of the unfamiliar jacket and still feeling a significant discomfort, helped not at all by Ren’s markedly odd attention to it. “I believe Mitaka said your excuse was something to the tune of the Order being incompetent if we need your input.”

Ren is quiet for a long moment, though his heavy boots echo across the stone floor when he uncurls from the table and stands with a short stretch of his shoulders. “You shouldn’t send him.”

“He volunteers,” Hux says, taking one last glance backward as they leave the room to make sure the droid is following, but it seems to simply be slow. “I believe he thinks it will reflect positively on his next submission for rank.”

“Will it?”

Hux doesn’t scoff aloud, but it’s a very close thing – he thinks Mitaka competent, but it has nothing to do with his baffling determination to be a messenger. “Unlikely.”

The sun outside is already high despite the hour and unobstructed by so much as a single cloud. It makes Hux long for the dark of space when unfamiliar rays turn every one of his eyelashes into pricks of light, exasperating his headache and nearly making him miss the bottom step down into the courtyard. 

The shuttle is waiting as promised, a sturdy Corellian design interrupted by an absolutely gaudy amount of rose gold gilding that makes Hux nearly feel sorry for it. A Thvalian guard stands at the ramp, stony faced and unresponsive to both Hux’s polite nod and the service droid’s whistling greeting as it rolls up past the lot of them.

“Have you brought a bag?” Hux asks, glancing sideways and feeling genuinely curious.

Ren shakes his head, bringing out a small pack from the inside of his cloak. It’s about twenty centimeters long and small enough to fit easily in a single hand, and easily recognizable as the standard pack for troopers on innocuous _day_ missions. It’s meant to hold rations, a small vaporator/water sterilizer, and little else, which means it’s likely that Ren stole the pack and has seen fit to fill it with whatever nonsense he deemed truly needful.  

“I assume that’s for your Chandrilan conditioner?” Hux says dryly, glancing up to Ren’s visor to share a quick smirk.

“Nothing less,” Ren says, with a quiet, indefinable noise escaping his helm as he stashes the short pack back at his side, completely hidden. It’s unclear whether he’s being unashamed or simply trying to catch Hux off-guard.

“General!” Gheralt calls, his tenor voice ringing loud from across the courtyard and seeming to startle even the statuesque palace guard. “Good morning!”

“Thoughtspeak,” Ren says, though it might have been meant more as a murmur by the way he’s ducked his misshapen helmet practically into Hux’s shoulder. “This week.”

Hux glances sideways, eyes narrowing with both consideration and suspicion. He is still rather uncomfortable with the idea, even as much as he allows it, but he’s also fairly certain he knows when Ren tries to push a little too far. “It ends if you take advantage.”

Ren leans back with a low noise that is definitely a scoff, then repeats it in the next instant when Gheralt steps between them with a whisper of thin fabric against the stones and an obvious intent to pretend Ren doesn’t exist. It would be an admirable goal if it weren’t so very stupid.

“I took the liberty of suggesting my own private shuttle for this,” Gheralt says, gesturing widely at the obvious shuttle at his side with a proud smile. “I assure you, the ride is _very_ comfortable. ”

Hux nods slowly, biting at his tongue and feeling at a sudden loss with how he’s supposed to respond. He would prefer nothing more than to tell Gheralt to kindly take his innuendo and step out of a moving speeder, but that would undoubtedly lead to a failed mission and a dressing down from Supreme Leader.

“General Hux designs ships for the First Order,” Ren interjects, entirely out of turn and oddly forceful, “Such as the one your people deemed so unsuitable.”

“Oh, I didn’t – I had no idea,” Gheralt says, tripping over his excuse as if he’s done something unforgivably gauche. Admittedly, it seems he has according to Ren, who is acting as if the interior of the _Upsilon_ could compare to a luxury shuttle. “I must admit that I have not actually seen this shuttle of yours, General.”

Hux had hardly thought he had – it’s probably still hovering in atmosphere, waiting to be called down whenever they need it. He makes a note to check Ren’s corresponding tracker once _this_ shuttle properly gets off the ground. 

“It’snot _his_ ,” Ren says, and suddenly the reason for his concern is painfully obvious: he has somehow managed to make this personal.

“It isn't?” Gheralt asks, finally openly acknowledging Ren with a glance sideways in obvious doubt, then slowly returning his gaze to Hux, “Do you not have your own?”

“All of them are mine,” Hux says, correcting the assumption with only slight sarcasm and outright feeling the disdainful look coming from Ren. “However, the one I use most often would be rather outsized for this mission.”

“I see,” Gheralt says, a quick smile flashing, tipping his head to look under his lashes, “Yours must be very big.”

“...In a similar thread, I am concerned you’ve only brought this shuttle,” Hux says, belatedly realizing he may have accidentally played a move to the baser conversation. He thinks his attempt at ignorance is convincing enough. “Will you be using the same lodging services? I’m uncertain there will be anything available on such short notice.”

“Your organization has conveniently already two rooms reserved,” Gheralt says, delivering this awful news with that sly grin still across his face, “I am simply going to sleep in one of them.”

Hux nods his head, suppressing all urges to reach forward and wring his hands around that jeweled neck. “How very… practical.”      

“And I hope you don't mind,” Gheralt continues, reaching into an apparent breast pocket to pull out a data pad, turning it over and displaying an obvious schedule with the next week neatly blocked off. “In the interest of social affairs, I set up an event for every second day. The first will be tomorrow.”

“Yes, Pforn had expressed a desire for something similar,” Hux says, feeling his hands curl his hands together within the long sleeves of his jacket. The gloves deny him the sharp, calming pain, but not the satisfying knowledge he’s going to have Pforn quietly disposed.

 _‘You **denied** him,’ _ Ren sends, his agreement pressing abruptly into Hux’s mind with little warning.

 _‘I'm aware enough,’_ Hux responds, his jaw tightening at the sensation, then the reminder of his complete loss of control in the mission. He thinks he might hear a molar creak with stress, and idly wonders if he will end the week with a few cracked teeth. _‘I believe it was you that started this distasteful trend of defying me.’_

Ren doesn’t respond for a beat, then brushes Hux’s mind with something that feels like a mental sneer, _‘Only when your orders are inane.’_

“General Hux?” Gheralt says, drawing back attention with a short lean forward into Hux's space. He reaches out with a bold hand, fingers gently curving under Hux’s elbow, then slowly stroking down to his wrist. “You seem… distracted. Is there anything I could do to help?”

Hux blinks back, mildly stunned _, ‘Well, he is officially shameless.’_

 _‘You are easier to tolerate when not aggravated,’_ Ren argues, an odd sort of consideration strafing across the tone of his thoughts. ‘ _A rare event.’_

Hux resists the urge to glance sidelong, attempting to re-order a few things further in the back of his mind, then instead falling back on an older notion: Kylo Ren is laughably ignorant. _‘Are you really so unfamiliar with innuendo?’_

Another short beat, and Ren pulls from Hux’s mind with an unsettling snap.

“I’m fine, I assure you,” Hux says aloud, returning his attention to Gheralt an awkward few moments too late, meanwhile attempting to quell an unfamiliar well of amusement pooling in his gut. He reclaims his wrist and looks a few meters further, toward the long shadow of the the palace, “It’s simply all this sunlight – I hardly get to experience it.”

“Ah yes, one of the greater features of Khere,” Gheralt says, shifting back a pace and lifting a hand, using it to shade to his brow as he looks out in the same direction, “Although, it barely gets above the horizon in the colder seasons.”

“Your Highness,” the Palace Guard interrupts, head bowed demurely toward the ground as they speak, “The shuttle is completely ready.”

“Ah, wonderful,” Gheralt says, his tone changing nearly completely to something more comfortably professional. “Our arrival on Oripha will be in under an hour, General, just in time for your meeting with the Schlera Company.”

“Thank you,” Hux says, gesturing for Gheralt to ascend the ramp ahead of him. He proceeds in front of Ren, but that’s more because he shoves in than any ensuing politeness from Ren, who actually exhales so heavily that it makes the guard look over in obvious alarm.

The interior of the shuttle is as obnoxiously appointed as the outside, featuring a large sunken sofa in the middle with visibly furred cushions being the main feature, along with a small bar curling against the wall with a human attendant standing at attention with similar stiffness as the guard. The warning for take-off appears with little more than small noise and a unobtrusive light a few moments later, and Hux readies himself against a safety rail in expectation, only to realize something is decidedly off as the ground smoothly disappears into the distance. The shuttle had ascended without the usual high-tuned thrust from it's supposed manufacturer. 

Hux narrows his eyes at the large ports, watching the comforting image of the stars appear, yet feeling a mixture of frustration and suspicion. “… Not a typical Corellian take-off.”

“Certainly not. It’s a new direction they seem to be taking recently,” Gheralt agrees, a short, delighted nod following the words. He gestures at the deck, as if it needs to be pointed out, “A more comfortable ride.”

“Indeed,” Hux murmurs, choosing to shelve this particular _inkling_ for another, less pressing time; he can hardly do anything about it now. “Might I ask if you have any private rooms? I need to speak with Lord Ren about the next part of the mission.”

“Oh,” Gheralt intones, taking time to send Ren a narrow look before sluggishly gesturing to a far door on the other side of the deck, an obvious pout settling on his lips. “The study should serve your needs well enough.”

The interior of the study is only slighty less obnoxious, but it lack both Gheralt and, it seems, any listening devices. It's a shame how inappropriate it would be for him to simply stay in here the entire next hour.

“I could kill him,” Ren says, turning on his heel and lifting a hand to mime the intergalactic gesture for a good strangling.

Hux glares for a quick, scolding moment, then glances significantly to the thin door separating them from Gheralt and his guards. “The mission cannot end in such a deliberate failure.”

Ren scoffs, the offensive noise of it loud in the small room, “He is already attempting to manipulate you.”

Hux turns to look more fully at Ren, leaning forward a few centimeters and feeling his jaw tighten for the nth time this morning with a very specific irritation. “Are you accusing me of being susceptible to it?”

“You do not know what you’re susceptible to,” Ren growls, his hand falling to make a fist at his side with barely held frustration.  “He only needs a _trigger_.”

“He won’t find one,” Hux snaps, ignoring a pang of disbelief that Ren seems to think him so weak-willed in the face of little more than this simpering irritant. He lifts a hand, coming a few centimeters from outright poking that broad chest, “And you could do to deter him – it’s why you’ve been dragged into this affair.”

“What?”

“You seem to have forgotten you’re playing a part, Ren,” Hux says, tightening his eyes into a harder glare, “Act it.”

Ren takes a pace further backward, leaning on a heel and tilting his head in evident confusion, “You’re encouraging me to… What are you saying?”

“I am saying that you’re meant to be more _invested_ in the outcome of this week,” Hux says, widening his eyes mockingly, even knowing it might only encourage Ren to act in some exaggerated action of defense. How can he possibly stand there and accuse Hux about some theoretical machinations of Gheralt, yet not realize something so painfully obvious? Oh right, he’s inherently _self-centered_. “And as someone who has seen how you get about anything from practice rooms to shuttles, I’m quite sure you’re an equally possessive twat as a lover.”

The tension in the small room thickens in the wake of the accusation, but Ren’s clenching hands appear more from nerves than anger, especially when he seems to purposely flatten them against his thighs. “You wouldn’t appreciate that, if it were true.”

Hux ignores the immediate impulse to scoff – Ren doesn’t have the first clue what he would _appreciate._ “Are you saying that has ever stopped you?”

Ren exhales audibly, then lifts his chin in some boorish show of pride. “No.”

“I hadn’t thought so,” Hux says, sneering just slightly, then looking quickly at the door again when he hears a telling clink of glassware on the other side. He feels his mouth shift into a more reluctant frown, uneager to go back out onto the living deck and suffer even the next few minutes.

He’s saved some by a sharp buzz against his side demanding attention, and is already reaching for the data-pad before the sensation has fully disappeared. It’s a message from Captain Phasma, and the same as he’s received for the last two days at the beginning of each shift cycle: _troopers are fine, training is on schedule._ It had been initially respectable that she seemed to think herself keeping Hux appraised, but after the fourth time receiving this exact message, it’s begun to feel like she is only patronizing him. He won’t even be able to properly ask her – voicing the suspicion would only make him look paranoid and small-minded.

“I wanted – I would have broken his wrist,” Ren says, breaking the silence with an oddly stuttering declaration. “With my own hand, I think. The Force wouldn’t be enough.”

Hux looks back upward, clicking the screen closed on the data pad as his thoughts are drawn firmly back to the current problem. “Excuse me?”

“He touched you,” Ren says, his gaze shifting noticeably downward toward Hux’s elbow. “If it were true, I would have broken the offending limb.”

“Ah,” Hux intones, unable to resist imagining the scenario for a short, indulgent moment: Gheralt sobbing on the paved stones of the palace courtyard, cradling a bony, bloody mess to his pretty clothes. It paints an inappropriately relaxing picture. “Regrettably, that would just as easily compromise the mission as his death”

Ren seems to focus back on Hux’s face, shifting on his feet. “And me?”

Hux blinks back, slowly raising an eyebrow.

“Am I allowed to touch you?”

Hux continues to stare into that stoic visor for a long moment, trying to determine in a split second if this is some attempt at a joke. “Just treat this as you would any other relationship.”

Ren exhales at length, the noise like broken static through the vocoder as he tips his head down and to the side in an oddly executed nod. It almost makes it seem like the question was asked as a legitimate concern.

“Unless, of course, they’ve all ended in some sort of grisly death,” Hux says, his voice lowering with accusation at the rapidly rising odds of the possibility. He had meant to say it in jest, but, “I never know with you.”

“No,” Ren says, straightening his back in some bodily display of offense. “I’ve not… No.”

Hux narrows his eyes, feeling something pool uneasily at the base of his throat with realization at the downright shifty manner Ren has been acting the _entire_ conversation. “Are you really that uncomfortable with the idea?”

Ren shakes his head once, perhaps a beat too quickly, and takes a needless step forward into Hux’s space with a short, stiff gesture near his arm, as if tempted to try out the temporary privileges. “It’s merely… I don’t participate in undercover missions. As a rule.”

“True enough,” Hux says, swallowing tightly and gradually feeling that strangling disquiet coalescing into another, less familiar form, “But this isn’t undercover.”

A jarring knock interrupts before Ren might respond, and Hux can practically feel the ill-intent merging between Ren and he as the noise continues far too long before ending in a soft hiss of an opening door. He has half a mind to take the few steps forward and force the door to reverse onto a thin ankle as it crosses the threshold, but maturely resists with a few thoughts toward Thvala’s precious resources. 

Gheralt leans forward with his hands folded at his back, a mockery of a shy grin spread across his face. “You two are really only _talking_?”

“Of course,” Hux says, stilling his tongue against the instinct to lecture for insubordination. "We're nearly finished."

‘ _Shoot him,’_ Ren insists, and the thought is almost like a growl, rumbling impossibly against the inside of Hux’s skull.

Hux quashes the instinct to agree, _‘Not until the end of the week.’_

~

Ren seems to decide that little more than being unbearably close is the proper way to go about portraying realism, and is a silent, threatening shadow from the moment they’re forced to leave the ship study. He hovers as Hux mimes being busy on his data pad, trails along when the shuttle makes landfall, and nearly stumbles into Hux’s back roughly fifteen times on the way to the Schlera Co. offices. It’s enough like when he’s being a meddling ass on the bridge that Hux almost steps back onto his instep just from instinct.

Fortunately, it comes off as something entirely different to Schlera’s Togruta negotiator, who seems unable to still a nervous habit of tugging at intervals at their lekku. It’s possibly one of the least stressful negotiations that Hux has experienced, everyone concentrating on the space at his left, and it seems that keeping Ren in the room rather than stalking the halls might be a legitimate tactic even after this week.

The main issue would be putting up with his unbearable and snide mental chatter.

 _‘Do these Thvalian morons siphon all their backbone into the Sovereign?’_ Ren asks, repeating in new and different ways the same thing he’s been saying the entire four-and-a-half-hour meeting. He has somehow managed to keep the tone perfectly clipped with fresh offense. _‘The Chair was practically quaking in those ill-fitted boots. Are you certain they have to skill to make the refractors for Starkiller?’_

 _‘You’re not here to judge fabrication techniques,’_ Hux responds, half-wondering why he isn’t just ignoring Ren, barely looking up as they enter the lift and sending a few of the less implicating proposals to the Finalizer and encrypting a few of the others on the unnetworked data pad. _‘Focus on your own task, you’re rather better at it.’_

 _‘Would that be making sure you’re not killed,’_ Ren asks, helmet tilting obnoxiously as he peeks around Hux’s shoulder, still uncomfortably close and predictably warm for a man wearing so woven fabric, _‘Or making sure you’re not espoused?’_

Hux raises a single brow in turn, mouth shifting into a smirk, _‘Are you finally confirming an inability to multitask?’_

Ren scoffs lowly in response, leaning back on the lift wall and clearly now focusing on the cityscape. He heaves a breath, speaking a few moments later, “This place is dying.”

“Only metaphorically,” Hux says, following the direction of Ren’s gaze out across a smog-covered cluster of manufacturing plants and solar ponds, side-by-side an obvious and large slum. "Probably."

“Deliberately?” Ren says, shifting on his feet to tilt his head back at Hux.

Hux stares back for a long moment, then gives a slow, thoughtful exhale. “No. The Sovereign deserves something more humiliating.”

“Perhaps,” Ren says, tilting his head and glancing in a hardly subtle manner back to the large slum. “A public vilification.”

Hux hums low, a few ideas readily appearing and circling in his mind – a few more Order sympathizers would certainly be a boon, especially if they _believe_ they’re the ones in control. “It’s certainly an idea.”

The short shift of Ren’s shoulders and marginal turn of his helm is enough of a tell for an eye-roll that Hux nearly takes the endorsement back. It never seems to occur to Ren that if he suggested his opinions rather than forcing them, then maybe Hux would be more willing to listen.

“Gheralt is going to attempt to take you out,” Ren says, squaring his feet as the doors to the lift curve open and reveal the open-air lobby.

Hux turns to look at him, feeling a mild panic at both the news and the fact Gheralt seemed fully unaware of any telepathic meddling - has Ren developed some new technique? “You couldn’t have told me this sooner?”

“I didn’t pull it from his mind,” Ren says, gesturing only slightly with his chin out toward the lobby entrance. “It is simply the only option when he has come here with a personal speeder. It matches the Corellian ship.”

“Hells,” Hux mutters, tightening his mouth to keep it from slipping into a quickly forming frown. The constant balancing of inoffensive and utterly uninterested is quickly becoming more exhaustive than it's worth.

 _‘The idea makes you legitimately miserable,’_ Ren thinks, swift and jarring enough that Hux feels almost as if it's some sort of insult.

Hux watches as Gheralt walks across the lobby, even tilting his chin in greeting, ignoring how every light tap of those heeled boots against the floor is like a hammer to his returning headache. _‘Of course it does.’_

“You’re here to take us to the hotel,” Ren says, turning and speaking over Gheralt before any invitation can pass between them. The words themselves seem more heavy than usual, as if they swallow sound rather than express it.

“I’m… I am h-here to take you back,” Gheralt says, speaking in a stilted, uneven beat as an ugly curl forms along his upper lip, until it all abruptly evens out into his usual smooth tenor and vapid smile. “I didn’t want you to suffer the tram twice.”

“It’s been no issue,” Hux says, resisting an urge to look sideways with mild fury - they're in public, cam droids are literally everywhere, and Ren's going to get them exiled from the planet _._ “I rather enjoyed the experience.”

Hux determinedly remains silent to any of Ren’s attempts at contact until the arrival at their lodgings in Oripha. He takes the time to instead organize a long list of all the very obvious things that could happen should Ren do something to the tiny mind of the Thvalian Prince, with _evidence,_ but never gets opportunity to repeat it as he's suddenly distracted by a new and terrible revelation. It comes only a few short moments after Gheralt farewells for the night, speaking stiff and still confused, so it's not until the door actually opens that Hux realizes the larger folly of the evening.

“This is unwise,” Ren exhales with a heavy, growly sigh.

“I can guess,” Hux agrees, reaching up and rubbing a few fingers along his brow. “I'm well aware you broke a trooper’s arm in your sleep on Dathomir.”

Ren looks sideways in odd urgency, his words practically tripping over as if there was a way to defend the action some two years after. “We weren’t in the same room.”

“You were outside, in a forest,” Hux says, gesturing toward the room with a pointed expression of how much worse that makes this in comparison. “Phasma rather enjoyed giving all manner of ways she wished you to be punished.”

“It shouldn’t…” Ren trails off, exhaling slow and shaking his head, “You won’t suffer the same consequence.”

“Forgive me for not finding that ‘ _shouldn’t’_ comforting,” Hux says, making sure to hold up a hand and practically trace the word as he says it.

Ren shakes his head again, reaching up and unclasping his helmet with little of his usual forewarning; his face is as pallid as the last time Hux saw it, hair shockingly dark and mysteriously windswept. He glances up after the helmet is sat on the arm of the sofa, but seems to look passed Hux rather than at him, “More accurately, my mind has long been... attuned to yours.”

Hux isn’t sure how to classify the streak of heat that creeps along his face, but chooses appalled disgust. He exhales in a short scoff and turns on a heel, focusing now the little kitchenette and the tray of mysterious fruits in the arms of a deactivated service-droid. He picks up a green and orange something cut into the shape of a flower, breaking off a petal as he shifts back around to look at the still-avoidant Ren, wits determinedly recovered, “I’m sure we’ll see tomorrow.”

Ren actually catches Hux’s eyes, then abruptly breaks them away again, “What?”

“If you’ve killed me,” Hux says, slowly swallowing the fruit and wondering too late if it’s even safe for him to eat. “Clearly.”

“I will sleep in the ‘fresher tub,” Ren says, and the words should be some manner of self-sacrificing, but he says them like it’s any normal duty. “Door closed.”

Hux breaks off another petal and tilts his head to look through the door at the overlarge bed, barely room for the small cubic tables on either side of it. He glances back to Ren and tries to imagine that large form curled in a tub and not ending up injured in the night – not to mention how irritable Ren might be the next morning.

“Don’t be a fool, that bed is large enough for a squadron,” Hux says, finishing the fruit and reaching for another, then realizing an instant later that he might only be eating the rather too-sweet flowers just to distract himself. "It's hardly a sacrifice."

Ren is silent for a long moment, then tips his head and loudly cracks his neck – an utterly abominable noise. “Real reason?”

“Gheralt has surprised us twice just today, simply to show he can,” Hux says, glancing toward his pack and the innocuous-looking door just next to it. “He has a room connected directly to this one.”

“I can keep the door closed with little concentration.”

“You’ve done a terrible job of it thus far,” Hux says, shifting his eyes back to Ren and finding with mild surprise that they’re actually met with a similar stare. “Would you like to try another excuse?”

“I hardly sleep,” Ren says, blinkingly slowly and mouth falling into a distracting frown.

“I don’t care,” Hux says, looking back to the tray and grabbing another flower. He’s hardly used to speaking to Ren without that damned helm; it’s unsettling his hard-earned balance. “When you do, it needs to be in the bed. Imagine there’s some wall between us if it disturbs you that much.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware the Upsilon doesn't have hyperspace capabilities, so I'm fully fudging the facts. 
> 
> (Also, does the eyelash thing happen to anyone else? It can be SO bad for me, though it's probably exasperated by the half-inch thick focusing lenses that I like to think are helping me.)
> 
>  
> 
> ~~(I'm not particularly happy with this, so apologies if you find it and overly stiff read.)~~


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hux resists the instinct to respond in turn, instead tapping at the lip of his teacup with the edge of a clipped nail, “We are speaking of something that may interest you.”
> 
> Ren glances with a twitch of his helmet at the caf and uneaten pastries, then raises his gaze upward to Hux. “I'm sure.”
> 
> “The late Prince Ben,” Hux says, watching for the telltale flinch and satisfied when Ren’s enormous shoulders tighten and shift up, “I believe you were acquainted.”
> 
> “I find that unlikely,” Gheralt says, leaning forward as if he could deter Ren joining the conversation.

The heat of Oripha is dry and oppressive in the day, yet quickly falls cool when night sets in; a small, negligible detail that Hux had hardly recalled until he woke with a sharp chill setting in along his shoulders. He reaches out languidly, grabbing at empty space and blinking blearily in the dim light of the new morning, uncomprehending of the shape at his side for a few moments too long.

Ren is curled up on the other end of the wide mattress, so far against the edge he's apt to fall, and swathed in every available layer like a cocoon. Hux hasn't the slightest clue how Ren managed to even enter the room without waking him, let alone steal the bedclothes, but suspects some significant misuse of the Force.

He nearly leans over to wrench a corner back, hand outstretched, before he remembers the trooper and her arm, the limb so badly mangled that she'd earned a shiny new prosthetic. Even if Ren didn’t react with violence, he would definitely wake angry, leaving Hux to do what – scold him for actually doing what was asked? Hux shifts back away, exhaling heavily, and squints at the window and the slowly rising sun; he could do to get up early, especially after his negligence yesterday.

Ren has spread out against the bed by the time Hux exits the refresher, now looking ridiculous with a pillow over his face in defense against the sun, most of the sheets and duvet half-fallen to the floor to reveal a surprisingly bare chest and the remaining spun around his waist. The sight inspires a sigh of frustration, a thought that if he'd waited only a few moments, then he could've reclaimed the bedclothes, until the obvious sets in, and it would probably be more pitiful if Hux still wasn't so irritated - Ren’s instinct to lash out in his sleep is clearly more a… developed skill.

Fortunately, Ren seems comfortable enough now to let Hux ready himself for the day without subconsciously curling back up, though he could’ve done to feel a little more shame at the apparent habit of sleeping so bare. Hux hurries for his data pads, swallowing an uncertain tremble at the back of his throat; he's unsure of this developing degree of familiarity, of the apparent effects, but… It's certainly working for now.

He makes it through through roughly thirty-three of the four-hundred and eighty-two messages received since yesterday, cursing the incompetent engineers in the same response as planning another task for them, when a decidedly misplaced knock draws his attention back to the present. He glances at the front door, bemused, then feels his mouth fall into an undignified frown when the knock repeats, now quite obviously from the adjoining door.

He pulls himself up with a long sigh toward his lost work, if feeling rather thankful that he had awoken so early – it’s still a few minutes until his alarm, and waking to this would have been far worse. A glance sideways shows Ren to apparently be taking the cowardly route of feigning sleep, still in the same place and virtually same position.

“Good morning!” Gheralt greets, already beaming with that overconfident smile. He practically shoves in the door, pressing a bold hand against Hux’s bicep as he moves, “I’m so glad to see I haven’t woken you.”

“I still have my duties to attend to despite the tour,” Hux says, gesturing toward his makeshift workstation, then looking back to Gheralt, only to stop short just a few words into insisting he be left to continue.

Gheralt is blatantly staring through the wide entry to the bedroom, his face a quiet shock that slowly morphs into a smaller smirk. His eyes slide a scant moment later to Hux, narrowing in an uncomfortably insinuating manner. “It seems your Lord _is_ made of flesh.”

“Ah,” Hux intones, feeling strangely caught until a baffling prickle of anger overtakes the notion. “ _Obviously_.”

“It is something of a comfort,” Gheralt says, keeping that little smug expression even as he shifts on his feet to look more fully at Hux. “You understand.”

Hux stares back for a long moment, then flattens his voice, “No.”

Gheralt blinks back, face falling as if he just now recognized how little humor Hux was willing to entertain with him. He shrugs a moment later, brushing off the reaction with a tip of his head over a satiny shoulder, “Well, I'm hardly here to ask about that, am I?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I was wondering, General, if you would… ” Gheralt pauses, taking a short breath and suddenly brightening with some undoubtedly moronic notion. “Oh, should I address you more personally, now we’re getting to know each other? Arm –“

“No one alive calls me that, Prince Gheralt,” Hux interrupts, feeling the usual sneer form before he can fully disguise it behind faked geniality. It’s less about the name itself than a near forgotten voice, and he’s certainly not going to let Gheralt step all over that, too.

Gheralt looks taken aback for the second time this morning, “Lord Ren would earn the privilege, certainly?”

“Hardly,” Hux says, trying to imagine the few syllables emerging from that helmet and finding himself completely unable.

“To the matter at hand, then,” Gheralt says, straightening his posture and lifting his chin, as if about to assert some princely decree. “I was looking to extend an invitation for breakfast.”

Hux nods with a singular tilt of his head, hoping his disinclination is obvious. He glances to the pair of data pads, then back to Gheralt, “It would need to be short. I have a meeting in... two standard hours.”

“Yes, I meant to take you out late after your negotiations  _yesterday_ , but… I-I wanted…” Gheralt trails off, eyes going glassy and gaze dashing suddenly around the room, as if desperately searching. He focuses a long few moments later back on Hux, blinking and bemused, “W-what was I – oh, I think one of my favorite cafes is in this same square. Would you accompany me for breakfast, General?”

Hux stares for a long moment, inwardly cursing Ren. “…Alright.”

“Splendid,” Gheralt says, seemingly completely unaware of his minor breakdown in faculty. He turns back to his door, though not before sparing another shameless look to the bedroom, “I will meet you downstairs within the next quarter hour. Alone.”

The moment the door hisses closed, Hux spins on his heels with a glare, catching Ren still unmoved from his languid slump. It seems being simultaneously ogled and insulted isn’t enough for him to react with any semblance of decency, either that or it’s shamed him into stone.

“Well, it seems you’ve officially liquefied his tiny brain, so here’s hoping no one asks about yesterday, hm?” Hux says, less sarcastic than he means to be. He steps toward his bag and begins shifting through the layers, pulling out another, lighter jacket he brought for these pointless, informal civilian encounters. He pauses and looks at the bed again, frowning hard at the slow-breathing figure twisted up in the sheets. “I know you’re awake. You’re acting like a fool.”

Ren continues to feign sleep, and Hux has half a mind to throw something at him.

He finishes dressing and pulls on his boots, sparing the hundredth or so thought that he should be allowed to wear his uniform, then takes a deep breath and goes for his personal data pad in the main room. He nearly slips it in his pocket, only to pause, eyes sliding back to Ren, and then instead taps the screen on and methodically presses in a twelve-digit emergency code.

He’ll have to clear the logs before he leaves the room, a record of a false alarm would be highly irregular, but the decision proves worth it when Ren springs out of the bed like some sort of wild creature at the ear splitting alarm. He pulls his own data pad from the bedside table and into his hand, seeming legitimate in his franticness for a few seconds, with an ungentle mental prod striking hard at Hux’s mind before retreating, but he ultimately falls back to the bed with an aggravated snarl and a needless, twice over slam of the far refresher door.

“Ah,” Hux intones, keying in a completely different code and swallowing an odd urge to laugh – it seems Ren actually was asleep. He swipes away the proper records, deleting them from existence, then pockets the data pad with a low hum. “My mistake.”

“You ass,” Ren says, his voice an impressive snarl that is near tone for tone the same quality as his usual modulated helmet.

Hux tips his head in a deliberately condescending nod to the sulking form of Ren, whose chest is still heaving, scars and skin stretching with unsurprising muscle, and wonders how such a fearsome man manages to look so much like a petulant child. “I expect you to disrupt my mandated breakfast with Gheralt in no less than thirty minutes. I have a meeting.”

"...Breakfast," Ren repeats, as if confused by the basic idea.

Hux is going to be rather late for it too, if he has to expand every detail before he can leave. "Yes, Gheralt barged in, just as I said he would, and – "  

"He was here?" Ren asks, voice becoming stringent and posture shifting upright with an all too visible tightening of muscle, his eyes glancing down Hux and then quickly passed him, "Impossible. I would have woken."

Hux raises a brow, exhaling slow and speaking more slowly, deliberately condescending. "Regardless of _possibility_ , I need to be extracted in thirty minutes."

“Leave under your own power,” Ren says, mouth curling into a sneer and turning his head to look out the far window.

“I’ve no need to be that rude,” Hux says, gesturing with a dismissive hand and turning to leave before he has to explain minutes. “You’re far better at it.”

Gheralt is sitting in the lower lobby just as promised, his guard a few paces back, and is now wearing a red feathery and velvet cloak over his clothes that makes him look like an insipid reenacter of Old Republic Senate proceedings. It’s almost a surprise he’s not seen fit to top it with some ugly, beaked crown.

The guard coughs low in their throat once Hux is within a few steps, prompting Gheralt to look up with a hastily affected smile.

“You’re suitably prompt, General."

“Practice,” Hux says, falling into a stiff stance and wondering if he looks like he’s about to come to judgment under Supreme Leader, then forgetting to care. He only needs to pretend to be affable, not eager.

Gheralt stands with an elegant straightening of his feet, the shifting color mildly distracting, and starts toward the door with little more warning. “My mother used to take me to this café – the proximity to the hotel is quite serendipitous.”

Hux ignores an instinct to sigh, simply shifting his head in a short nod. “Indeed.”

The café is only a street away, at the end of a courtyard, and is absolutely packed by various and sundry making their morning rounds. The front area is full of tables and patrons, attendants and droids bustling through narrow paths, and Hux dreads some manner of princely scene demanding a perfect table. The short ding of the front door as they enter belies a worse scenario, with the twi’lek at the front of a credit machine giving out a large gasp.

“Your Highness!” they gush, startling the rest of the patrons as they bustle out from behind their counter and approach with visible reverence in their eyes. They bow once they get within a meter, head dipped to the floor, “I had no idea you’d be gracing our city today.”

Hux nearly turns and walks out – he can barely tolerate this sort of toadying when directed at himself. It’s such an insult when subordinates think him subject to petty flattery, as if flowery words were more meaningful than competence. Gheralt seems to disagree with the sentiment, practically puffing up with pride at every next word.

Hux shifts his attention from the ugly scene to the rest of the café, fully registering a wealth of unsubtle staring a few moments too late, which is just delightful. If he ends up on a New Republic rag, he’s going to be personally shooting the editor.

“It was very short notice,” Gheralt says, leaning forward with a hand pressed to his own chest in some sort of askance. “I do hope you can find room for us, Dorana.”

“Certainly, my prince,” Dorana says, straightening and keeping their almost manic smile perfectly fixed. They look quickly to Hux, visibly confused, and focus back on Gheralt, “I should hope we satisfy your guest, as well.”

“Ah, yes,” Gheralt says, hand dropping to curl at his back with the other. “It’s his first trip to Oripha. I was hoping to show him the best of the city.”

“Oh, such an honor,” Dorana says, suddenly speaking low and diverting their eyes with an odd curling of their posture. “Would you both like the special assortment, my prince?”

“It would do well,” Gheralt says, humming low in his throat and lifting a few fingers to tap affectedly at his chin. “I will have my usual tea, and – “

“Caf,” Hux interjects, stiffening his jaw when Dorana glances up, expression aghast at his interrupting their beloved prince, but he is not here to have everything decided for him. “Thank you.”

Dorana at least recovers quickly, gesturing left with a sweeping gesture and drawing attention to an oddly empty pair of chairs near a window. “We have your usual table, your highness.”

Ah. How many credits does this place lose leaving that seat open, then?

“Thank you, Dorana,” Gheralt says, stepping forward and blatantly dismissing them like a servant with a wave of his hand.

“Does your guard not eat?” Hux asks, glancing to the side to watch them retreat and settle in near the door. Even when Hux travels with a trooper squad, everyone eats at the same time – it hardly earns respect to actively starve your own subordinates, let alone make them watch your greediness.

“Not when on duty,” Gheralt says, actually laughing in a short breath and folding his hands onto the table surface. “I assume yours is the same?”

“Lord Ren is free to eat whenever he likes,” Hux says, keeping to himself that it could hardly matter, as neither of them are very practiced at keeping up with it. Ren's excuse is a mystery, but the First Order has drilled specific schedules and portions into Hux’s life, and being separated from that has been something of an issue.

A pair of plates and mugs appear in the arms of a droid, all delivered to the surface of the table with a marked flourish. The main course seems to be sugary bread in various shapes - more flowers, a few spheres, and a giant, frosted star at the center - accompanied by an assortment of colored syrups.

The droid takes a special notice to name off all of the syrups, but Hux is more concerned with the familiar smell of caf – he hasn’t had real caf in _years_. Every ship has its own supply of instant, but he’s more apt to simply eat the crystals than take the time to find hot water.

“You seem to enjoy your caf, General,” Gheralt says, gently blowing the steam of his own cup before taking a dainty sip; his tea is pale and recognizably herbal, which is rather another mark against him.

Hux agrees with a short hum, mood tempered some by the rich bitterness lapping against his tongue, and determinedly restrains himself from downing the too-small portion in a few gulps. “It was one of the few universal Imperial rations – a policy rumored to have been enacted by the Emperor himself.”

A joke at best, but one of the few Hux has always found entertaining – it’s rather unlikely the emperor gave a single brain cell to military rations.

“Ah, of course, the Emperor,” Gheralt says, eyes drifting up to Hux's face with significant weight, ringed fingers plucking a small, powdery roll from his plate and soaking it in the violet syrup. “My line can actually be drawn to his only a mere six generations ago, courtesy of the Elder Houses pristine records. I believe that makes it rather fitting that my kingdom is now of use to your organization.”

“The late Emperor was from Naboo, Prince Gheralt,” Hux says, pretending to act uninterested and glancing down for a moment at the pastry that was apparently _chosen_ for him – he has little use for this much sugar, let alone when baked in the shape of Thvalian flora. He looks back up as he tears off a petal, feeling a certain petty delight at crushing the bid to impress, “It is just as likely that you're equally connected to his murderers and neglecting to disclose it.”

Gheralt inhales softly with exaggerated offense, frowning at his teacup and pinching the thin handle between his fingers in some attempt at demure. “Your knowledge is surprising, General. I would think genealogy far outside your purview.”

“Personal curiosity,” Hux says, taking another sip of his caf and pursing his lips against the urge to smirk. He idly looks to the window, inadvertently catching sight of Ren’s hardly subtle form marching across the busy front street, well inside thirty minutes, and remembers the very reason he looked into such a thing in the first place, “Blood means little to the First Order, but I always enjoy a good story.”

“Ah, yes,” Gheralt says, exhaling slowly and shoulders relaxing by measures at the opportunity for a change in conversation. “My mother was a mild acquaintance of Organa's before that was revealed. I attended more than a few events with her as a guest – I would never have predicted such a connection.”

“Few could,” Hux says, remembering the shock that had spread across even the First Order at the revelation. Sometimes, he wonders if even Ren had known, but is secondarily certain that he must have had _some_ idea.

Gheralt takes a sip of his tea, peeking up oddly under his dark lashes and brandishing another smug smile. “It may be inappropriate to say, but Prince Ben was actually one of the few others my mother deemed a suitable match.”

“Prince Ben?” Hux repeats, legitimately taken aback and hoping his glance toward the outer courtyard, and ultimately Ren’s approach, is more subtle than it feels. It seems the Force does not enhance the ears, and Hux watches as Ren continues his slow circuit around the outer crowd of patrons with hardly a trip in his step.

“Yes, Organa's late son,” Gheralt says, his tone turning taunting as if this small, obvious detail gives him some modicum of superiority. “I only met him once, when I was nearing sixteen and he twenty, but I must admit I am grateful it could never be formally proposed after his… unfortunate passing.”

Hux turns his gaze to focus on Gheralt, a familiar itch to _know_ at the back of his mind – curiosity is one of his few vices, but it rarely steers him wrong. “Might I ask what was wrong with him?”

Gheralt stares back for a moment, clearly startled at Hux’s active interest, then leans back in his chair with a low hum. “Well, he was… He firstly refused to dance. The music was apparently not to his taste and he barely came out of the eaves the entire night – it was like he blended into the walls themselves.”

Hux waits a beat, then tuts politely, covering an urge to frown with another sip of his caf and trying not to feel too disappointed; he expected to hear that Ben acted a rotten, lazy prince, worse than even Gheralt, not skulking about in the corners. He already knows plenty about _that_ behavior.

“Secondly, he was rude,” Gheralt continues, finally satisfying a few of Hux’s assumptions, “He held little respect for his own station, let alone mine, and expressed no polite interest in Thvala as he was expected; he outright declined to answer my questions about his mother or her constituency.”

“Scandalous,” Hux murmurs, his head lolling sideways when the low ring of the door signifies someone entering it at his back, though the measured step of a durasteel-toed boot belies it to be someone who is only a mild enemy.

“He was altogether apathetic to my presence,” Gheralt says, his voice becoming a genuine snap of irritability. He seems completely incensed with his recollecting and even crosses arms against his chest, as if the offense is still fresh. “The only individual to hold his interest was the droid running the dessert buffet.”

“Truly?” Hux says, glancing sideways between blinks and catching Ren with his helmet pointed directly at the elaborate glass case of sweetbreads. “Although, perhaps rather predictable.”

Gheralt raises a single brow, frustration fading behind an obvious bewilderment, “Is it?”

“Ah, Ren, there you are,” Hux calls, turning just to watch Ren’s shoulders fall at the words, and smirking with mild delight. The feeling lingers even when Ren gracelessly shoves in between the tables, casually inciting squawking from other patrons in his drive to the window seat.

“General,” Ren says, staring at Hux for whatever length that he seems to feel signifies annoyance, then turning across the table, “Prince Gheralt.”

Hux resists the instinct to respond in equal rudeness, instead tapping at the lip of his teacup with the edge of a clipped nail, “We are speaking of something that may interest you.”

Ren glances with a twitch of his helmet at the caf and uneaten pastries, then raises his gaze upward to Hux. “I'm sure.”

“The late Prince Ben,” Hux says, watching for the telltale flinch and satisfied when Ren’s enormous shoulders tighten and shift up, “I believe you were acquainted.”

“I find that unlikely,” Gheralt says, leaning forward as if he could deter Ren joining the conversation.

“On the contrary, Kylo Ren was once _quite_ close to Prince Ben before…” Hux trails off, pausing deliberately with feigned curiosity and turning to look at Ren with a raised eyebrow, “What happened to him, again?”

Ren breathes heavily for a good thirty seconds, clearly attempting to focus his eyes into a laser; Hux smirks back with just as much obstinacy, tilting his head as if waiting for a serious answer.

Predictably, Gheralt breaks first, inhaling softly and staring at the table, “…Murder is the rumor.”

“Yes, of course, what a shame that is,” Hux says, momentarily turning to Gheralt and making rare effort to hide his irritation – it’s not as if Gheralt is privy to their usual rapport. He lifts his caf to take a long, mildly affected sip before continuing, “It seems that he was the original goal of the Sovereign for her son’s hand. Can you imagine that, _Ren_? Such an interesting coincidence.”

Ren is silent for a few minutes longer, drawing it out to an almost awkward degree that Hux cannot be certain isn’t on purpose, then speaks in a drawling tone that is clear even beyond the mask, “Droids do not come equipped with the faculties to imagine.”

“Perhaps if he'd been less a boorish ass as a young man, then we mightn’t be going through this at all,” Hux says, raising his eyes and glaring into the dark of Ren's visor, pressing his lips into a staunch frown. “Funny how chaos can be so far reaching.”

Ren shifts forward a few centimeters, head visibly tilting as he looms over Hux’s seat in some attempt to intimidate, “He would have done the same. He’s quite happy to be unmarried.”

“Wait, excuse me,” Gheralt interjects, leaning over the table and making to grab Hux’s wrist before smartly hesitating the gesture, “What does – do you think he's possibly still alive?”

“No,” Hux says, silently echoed by Ren as a sudden shiver of cold descends upon the small café. He clears his throat, hastily shoving his leftover pastries at Ren, “Theory, of course.”

Gheralt stares for a long moment, eyes shifting to Ren and narrowing marginally, “…Of course.”

“I can’t eat this,” Ren says, helmet pitching downward as he reaches forward with a gloved hand, rotating the plate on it’s base. His expression is undoubtedly petulant, voice sullen behind modulation.

Hux exhales in a quiet scoff, leaning back and gesturing sharply at a passing server to catch their attention. They are blessedly quick enough to catch on to his request, nodding shortly and diverting their path toward the back.

The help arrives in the hands of a small, single purpose droid that seems programmed to do nothing but carefully place pastries into small boxes. It trills with a mundane excitement at completing its function, wishing Hux a safe trip in binary, and holds the box outward on spindly arms ended with clamps; Hux kindly takes the box with a nod downward, signaling it to toddle off back to its charging station.

“Really, darling,” Hux says, watching the droid a few moments longer before looking up, lifting the pastry box with a smirk to hand it off to the proper, glowering recipient, “Must I do everything for you?”

The diminutive sets off a quick exhale of static, but Ren takes the box all the same in a rare show of tact. He looks absolutely, hysterically ridiculous: a giant black shroud holding a doily-covered, green and white box.

“Are we done already, General?” Gheralt asks, turning the look in his pretty eyes to something deliberately coy. “I was hoping we could speak more.”

“I have an appointment with a manufacturer,” Hux says, standing from his seat and pointedly tapping at the exposed edge of a wrist. “You may seek company with Ren, if you’d like.”

Hux ignores the jab of Force against his kidneys, clenching his jaw to keep from giving an outright yelp. He doesn’t often feel envy for Ren’s Force abilities, seeing as they seem come with far too many overwrought dramatics, but they’d certainly be useful if just to imperceptibly respond in kind when Ren is a child.

“Ah,” Gheralt intones, eyes flickering upward with a short inhale and a visible swallow, “I wouldn’t want to keep him from his duties.”

Hux attempts to look surprised.

~

“Did you attend many Senate parties?” Hux asks, once the hotel room door has closed at his back and he can settle into his plans for the rest of the day. He glances to the mirrored wall near the door, glancing across the rest of the room at his back when the question elicits not even a sarcastic rejoinder, “Gheralt complained that was where he met Prince Ben and his terrible personality.”

“One. An accident,” Ren says, voice low even through the modulator. His shoulders seem to sag, and considering he’s a few meters to Hux’s back, he probably didn’t intend for it to be noticed, “In a manner of speaking. Organa had… She unintentionally double-booked the day. I had to accompany her as consequence – I don’t remember Gheralt.”

“Unfortunate,” Hux says, then narrowing his eyes once the words fully register, certain he’s misheard – _double-booked_? Not even the Commandant had forced Hux to ever make an appointment; although, he probably would have had he known it was apparently an option. 

“Yes, decade-old information would have been very useful,” Ren mutters, peeling open the small box with careful fingers and staring inside. “What is this?”

Hux replaces the impulse to sigh with an eye-roll at his own reflection in the mirror, and resettles into the position he had been before Gheralt rudely interrupted, “A pastry. You saw it five minutes ago.”

“Why are you giving it to me?”

“I refuse to be wasteful,” Hux says, lowering his voice with irritation and wondering why this is turning into such an ordeal. 

Ren makes a low noise, soon accompanied by the low hiss of his helmet. A quick glance in the mirror shows that while he seems to be eating the pastry now, it looks much more like he’s dissecting it for the sugary center. His expression is petulant, “You lied about negotiations today.”

“I have enough unread messages to last me more than the eight hours until Gheralt’s _event_ ,” Hux says, setting his data-pad to the table and shoving it up next to it’s unnetworked twin. He curls his fingers upward in command, and watches with a familiar sort of comfort as the combined holo-screen fills in with information, “You can do what you like as long as I’ll not be forced to take responsibility.”

Ren picks at his food in silence, then abruptly stands and shoves the crumbs at the toddling cleaning droid, "I'm going to the market."

Hux scoffs low in his throat, watching dubiously as Ren begins to rearrange and fold his clothes into something that looks more convincingly assassin than ancient warrior monk. The belt doesn't seem to fit into the ensemble, judging by the way it gets thrown carelessly to the floor. "If you kill someone, clean it up."

Ren grunts, tying his hair into a knot and then twisting the torn cowl into a makeshift scarf that covers most of his face. 

"Ren," Hux says, turning from the mirror to look at him more directly, hoping it properly emphasizes the order. "I'm quite serious."

"Attend to your messages, _General_ ," Ren snaps, shifting his lightsaber from his hip to under a few folds, stomping egregiously to the door only to abruptly pause at Hux's makeshift workstation. His eyes dart down, catching Hux's and then abruptly breaking away. "Don't leave the room."

Hux dearly hopes every ounce of his disdain is clear upon his face. "I'm hardly defenseless." 

 _'Fine,'_ Ren thinks, frustrated thoughts shoving into Hux's mind with curiously less bite than normal, _'I'll be listening.'_

"Wonderful," Hux says aloud, projecting as much bitterness as possible and looking back to his workstation.

He ignores a mysterious clatter a moment later, refusing to look up, but his eyes slide sideways, not entirely of his own accord, just few moments later. He's left staring at the door that just closed behind Ren, and suddenly, unaccountably... feels bereft.

Odd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is technically split in half, mostly through my own arbitrary mental decision that a day = chapter, and as a result the next may be put out in sooner than a week (it's not technically finished, but it might be), so I hope this is alright and not too frustrating for anyone. 
> 
>  
> 
> ~~It's also largely a self-indulgent chapter regarding my obsession with making famous Prince Ben a _thing_. He wears that mask for more than just aesthetic.~~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, this is…” Hux trails off, unsure as he reaches forward hesitantly to scroll down, and feels his eyebrows go straight to his hairline when he finds the lengthy pros and cons portion, then a comprehensive picture gallery. “I am… I don’t know what to say. I find it odd that hair is a pro on both sides.”
> 
> “You should be more angry,” Ren grunts, still hovering near the display; his voice a little too close to Hux's ear.

Ren announces his return with a heavy box thrown down onto the table, the impact almost enough to shake Hux's makeshift workstation apart. It’s roughly thirty-five centimeters in length, split down the middle with a seam, and sealed with a print lock that has Hux hoping it’s not stolen.

“Well, it’s too small to be a head,” Hux says, straightening his display with a shift of his fingers and low sigh. He lifts his eyes, giving a narrow smirk, “Did you settle for a hand?”

Ren shakes his head, seemingly not noticing the condescension, or at least ignoring it. He pulls off his gloves and actually kneels at the other side of the table, pressing a thumb to the scanner until a soft click prompts the seam to split open.

Hux raises a brow, frowning when Ren declines to be any more forthcoming, and shifts forward to peer into the box. The inside is lined with a standard felt frame, cradling a pair of identical vibrodaggers that shine dully against the soft light of the holo-screen. He has an odd impulse to reach out and run his fingers along a de-activated blade, something shimmering in the back of his mind before quickly retreating, leaving him to feel his hands curl together in his lap. “Hardly your sort of weapon,”

“No,” Ren agrees, glancing unevenly in the space between the daggers and Hux’s display. He exhales hard, the noise seeming soft without his vocoder, and shoves the box markedly closer to Hux.

Hux tightens his hands harder together, until nails bite into opposing palms. Ren has never seemed the gifting _type_ , and while it’s scarcely the most surprising thing Hux has discovered about him, the fact he’s on the receiving end of it might be.  

“Your sidearm requires a fingerprint,” Ren continues, his hand twitching on the tabletop another moment longer, then reaching to shiftily pull his cowl further up his nose; the hem seems to crumple his lashes. “It’s stupid. A security risk.”

Hux turns his eyes down, fingers unbending by slow measures before he gives into that terrible little urge and shoves his display to the side, dragging the box closer. He gently pries one of them out of the case, surprised to find a thin leather sheath underneath, then testing the weight against a pair of fingers and spinning the hilt across his knuckles with a short flick.

He spares a thought that they seem oddly light, but ultimately frowns at what he finds on the other side: an aurek carved into the dark hilt with a thin sheen of alusteel permanence. He stares at it, a sense of disbelief rising before quickly turning abruptly to irritation, and looks up, narrowing his eyes at Ren and flipping the blade until the aurek is visible.

Ren stares at the letter for a long moment, then shrugs with a sharp twitch of his shoulders, “They were at a pawn stall.”

Hux doesn’t hold back his scoff, shaking his head and reaching for the other one. He enjoys feeling the weight of them in both hands, memory sparking from long-past training, and twirls the blades parallel to his wrists. “They’re very light.”

“Cortosis,” Ren says, eyes narrowing with some odd emotion, unreadable even with the tenuous connection between minds. “I… tested it. The effect is unsettling.”

“Incompatible low frequency vibrations,” Hux says, recounting the fact from some footnote in a text that he can't quite recall the subject for – perhaps the Clone Wars. “I would imagine the effect to be particularly dangerous with your weapon.”

Ren remains quiet for a long moment, perhaps offended, “It only did as expected.”

 _‘Lucky,’_ Hux thinks forcefully, tilting his head to watch the twitch form at the corner of Ren's petulant gaze. He hums, drawing a nail against one of the blades and watching it easily shiv off in a thin slice, “I wasn’t aware there was any left.”

“Nor was I,” Ren says, voice lowering markedly as Hux activates the blade, lighting it up with a shimmery warning. “I couldn’t risk them in the hands of an enemy.”

Hux glances up, an odd, frenetic bolt striking through him, thumb now motionless at the end of the hilt switch, “Oh? And what am I?”

Ren stares back a scant moment, then looks down dismissively, dragging the box back to his side. He pulls the pair of sheathes out, fingers slipping between the buckles in a pitiful attempt to distract, “More valuable alive.”

Hux sets one of the daggers back down, slowly, listening to the metal clink against the stone top. The silence is thickening, like a choking humidity, and he breaks it before anything of it can seep into his mind. “Did you discover anything else?”

Ren’s brow furrows, pinching hard between his eyes with a confused, almost slighted look up at Hux.

“Did you?” Hux prompts, tipping his empty hand upward in mock encouragement.

“Yes,” Ren snaps, abruptly standing from the table with a baffling turn of mood, sending a flood of projected frustration before he closes it off without warning.  “Your reason for being here is hardly a secret, especially after your scene this morning.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean?” Hux says, absently flipping the dagger back and forth in his hand before forcing himself to stop, dropping the blade next to its twin as a sneer forms at the corner of his mouth. The lack of static in his head after hours of it is almost more grating than its presence in the first place, and now he's feeling strangely on edge.

Ren reaches forward to grab boldly ahold of the forgotten display, rigidly typing in a few keywords and then shoving it back over in Hux’s face. He shifts to stand stiffly at Hux’s side, shoulders hunched and arms crossed, awaiting some sort of judgment as the page slowly loads every important detail. The screen is of a gossip site, just as Hux had feared this morning, but rather than featuring some awful candid holovid, it is instead some sort of public opinion poll between Prince Ben and General Hux, and of who would be more suited to Gheralt's hand.

It seems _someone_ had been listening very closely to Gheralt’s and his conversation, yet neglected to actually hear anything past the first few words.

“Well, this is…” Hux trails off, unsure as he reaches forward hesitantly to scroll down, and feels his eyebrows go straight to his hairline when he finds the lengthy pros and cons portion, then a comprehensive picture gallery. “I am… I don’t know what to say. I find it odd that hair is a pro on both sides.”

“You should be more angry,” Ren grunts, still hovering near the display; his voice a little too close to Hux's ear.

“I’m certainly trying,” Hux admits, reading through the rest of the article; it doesn’t touch a lot on him, being something of an unknown aside from a few pieces of First Order propaganda, but it seems they're satisfied enough to judge him based on shallower criteria. “However, subtlety was out the airlock when Gheralt and Pforn decided to throw parties.”

Ren is quiet for a tense moment, then exhales hard, “You find this… amusing.”

“Terribly,” Hux says, swiping his fingers every few seconds to see all of the provided pictures of dearly departed Prince Ben. The lot of them look like terrible paparazzo droid captures, all at odd angles and Ben scarcely looking up from the ground. “You look miserable in every one of these – aren’t you supposed to have a little braid? Padawans always have braids in the holofilms.”

Ren falls silent almost inhumanly silent, seemingly watching Hux scroll through pictures, then gives a low scoff, “Organa refused to let Skywalker continue the tradition – _certain_ groups were out for Force-sensitives.”

“How terrible,” Hux says, keeping his voice dry and swiping to another picture; Ben at some sort of park, sitting on a bench and staring at an enormous globule of water, clearly lifted right from its pond. “Who would do such a thing.”

Ren settles down with a clumsy slump at Hux’s side and leans forward to shove the focus to the top of the page, not bothering to ask as he presses at the ‘show results’ button. He inhales with obvious disbelief when the page loads, glancing to Hux with a bright, mocking look in his eyes.

“It is rather a surprise,” Hux agrees, raising an eyebrow at the most obvious discrepancy and curling his lips along his teeth, hiding an urge to smirk back. “You winning while being dead.”

“That’s how much everyone hates you,” Ren says, his voice going low and snide, pointing at the 47% so hard he nearly sticks his hand through the display in eagerness. He is certainly smug for a man who usually gets so bloody-minded when this part of his life is mentioned. “It will be difficult to overthrow the system with this sort of approval.”

 “I hardly care about _approval_ , Ren,” Hux says, shoving Ren’s overlarge hand from the greater part of the display. He cannot believe he’s been so effectively sidetracked from work by this nonsense.

“It will be clearer tonight,” Ren continues, leaning closer and lowering his voice to a ludicrous tone. “I expect an assassination attempt, to wrest you from the prince.”

“Is that an expert opinion, Lord Ren,” Hux asks, lifting his eyes and determinedly catching Ren’s fleeting gaze with a raised eyebrow, “Or a mere hope for excitement?”

Ren tips his head, looking away and shrugging with a single shoulder.

“Pity,” Hux says, shifting forward and tapping to another window on the display. The reminder of the quickly coming event is hardly welcome, and he… He glances sidelong once more, listening as something on the edge of his hearing becomes obvious in the moment of quiet, “Are you having some sort of attack?”

“Attack,” Ren repeats, his wide, deceptively guileless eyes blinking back and then shifting away again, but his breath is still far too audible.

“You’re breathing rather erratically,” Hux says, looking toward the window as a theory forms, supported by the obvious fact Ren has been completely encased in heavy black drapery the entire day. “Are you suffering from the heat?”

Ren is quiet for a long moment, then moves backward and unexpectedly stands, exhaling at length with a trio of nods that calls his mental state into question. His hands flex at his sides, and he takes another step back, speaking even more stilted than his usual uneven beat. “Yes. I have not had anything to drink in the time since I left.”

“Go get something, then,” Hux says, furrowing his brow and gesturing dismissively, wondering with half a mind what he would've done if Ren had neglected to come back – probably somehow pin the blame on Gheralt. “You’ll be hardly any use passed out from heat-stroke.”

~

 _‘I’d appreciate you being more involved tonight,’_ Hux sends, smiling tightly when a lingering guest waves over with the twirling fingers that seems to be a friendly greeting in this part of the galaxy.

 It looks utterly moronic.

_‘I’ve already given you daggers.’_

_‘Don't be difficult,’_ Hux responds, tempted to shift his next step sideways and catch it on Ren’s boot. _‘You know exactly what I mean.’_

Ren seems to huff without words, a light brush of foreign annoyance, _‘Jealous.’_

 _‘Possessive,’_ Hux corrects, _‘Gheralt is meant to be jealous.’_

‘ _Semantics_ ,’ Ren says, turning his head almost pointedly – ah, definitely pointedly.

Hux swallows back a scoff, instead glancing across the room as they step in through the wide entry door. It seems that many of the guests have arrived well ahead of Hux’s notice, but that may be an advantage in this case, if still rude. _‘Fine. We’ll simply make a display of it and then you can skulk around.’_

 _‘A display,’_ Ren repeats, a dubious, reluctant sort of emotion coiled with the words.

‘ _Yes_ ,’ Hux sends, continuing to march to the center of the room. It feels akin to approaching a review board for a reprimand, which is somewhere lower than a direct dressing down from Supreme Leader, though not by much.

 _‘I won’t dance,’_ Ren sends, his declaration somehow echoing across Hux’s thoughts with urgency. He stops without warning, leaving Hux to make an awkward back-step, and visibly squares his shoulders. _‘I refuse.’_

Hux allows an impulse to roll his eyes; the morning’s conversation with Gheralt is still quite fresh in his mind. _‘I’m equally inclined.’_

 _‘Gheralt is already here – he's watching you,’_ Ren thinks, with an odd, discomfiting awareness appearing and then disappearing within Hux’s mind as they reach the edge of the room proper. _‘Near the bar.’_

Hux resists a strong urge to look for himself, casting suddenly for a convincing act until he spies a couple being entirely too close across the room, at another balcony. He turns in nearer to Ren, until the back of a shoulder is nearly fitted to the front of Ren’s in a poor imitation of the more dimorphic pair, and tips his head at an angle that blessedly allows him to see that Gheralt is definitely paying attention.

Ren doesn’t move in a single centimeter. Even with a vaguely direct thread into his mind, it’s unclear if this is the usual disagreeableness or from simple befuddlement, but it’s incredibly untimely.

 _‘Cooperate for a single moment of your life,’_ Hux sends, putting as much snap into his thoughts as possible. _‘Our window is closing.’_

Ren thankfully responds with a shift sideways, but it’s almost too slowly, his boots lining carefully up against Hux’s and arm curling behind his back; presumably, the fact Ren is neglecting to actually touch him is hidden by the shadows of the crushed velvet drapes. Hux turns in closer, lifting a hand to hide his mouth as if he’s sharing some sort of comment, and tries not to feel too offended when Ren’s body seems to freeze up with discomfort.

“Is he still paying attention?” Hux asks, speaking aloud and watching as Ren’s head predictably tilts as if to hear better. The behavior usually seems utterly needless, but here it will lead to a more convincing act.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Hux says, then takes a short breath and drops his hand, leaning in to close the scant few millimeters of space.

The durasteel is cool, and one of the many dents is obvious beneath Hux’s lips, but otherwise it’s… utterly unremarkable. He blinks in surprise and starts when a hand appears large and heavy on his back, forcing the hilt of a dagger into his spine, and hopes he looks more composed than he feels as he leans back away.

Ren, for his part, is still utterly frozen aside from the way his fingers have clutched tightly into Hux’s coat.

 _‘I believe it worked,’_ Hux sends, ignoring the too-quick thump of his own pulse; he concentrates on looking out of the corner of his eye, watching the way Gheralt stares in visible frustration and quickly turns to one of his many friends, jaw markedly tight beneath that ever-present façade of geniality. _‘You’re free to leave any moment now.’_

Ren takes an audible breath, emotions invasive and unrecognizable, until settling with a sudden resentment. _‘Good.’_

Hux swallows tightly as Ren’s presence abruptly vacates his mind, the heavy weight of his hand disappearing only an instant later. A discomforting chill spreads along Hux’s side, and he has an urge to look backward, to search for Ren as he blends into the shadows, but instead lift his chin and takes a few steps further toward the middle of the room.

He chooses to aim for the decorated bar, set at the foot of a large pool of some kind, and wonders how ruinous it would be for both mind and body to become appallingly intoxicated twice in three days. He definitely shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea, especially if it becomes some manner of associative behavior with Gheralt, who may become a more permanent fixture if Hux has just foiled his only method of out.

He probably should have given some manner of warning, which is obvious now, but it wasn’t even a real kiss – it was given to a durasteel helmet. He’s experienced the same level of intimacy tripping into a wall on the _Finalizer_.

Unfortunately, he only gets as far as seeing the pool is filled with some small furry, wampa-faced creatures before he’s diverted from his goal when Gheralt falls into place next to him at the queue to the bartender. Gheralt plays at only being there to order a drink, glancing across the bottles and humming thoughtfully, and Hux is forced to wait impatiently for the end to the pointless routine.

“Are you partial to anything, General?” Gheralt asks, turning his head and smiling with a short quirk of his lips.

Hux shakes his head shortly, all ideas of alcohol waning entirely with a new urge to defy. “I am technically on duty.”

“A shame,” Gheralt says, picking up a glass offered to him from a silent attendant. He hadn’t said a single word to them, but it’s hardly surprising that his preferences are some public knowledge – unless, of course, he simply instructed them to constantly be waiting on him. “I was wondering if I could accompany you for a dance? Lord Ren hardly seems inclined.”

“I’m not trained in dancing, Prince Gheralt,” Hux says, finding himself balking at the idea with an entirely juvenile thread of panic. He’s hardly participated in these sorts of events within the First Order proper, but something about the idea strikes some lost memory of being trodden underfoot.

“I promise you, it’s quite easy,” Gheralt says, reaching out and pressing a hand lightly to Hux’s bicep, gesturing out with his glass toward the dancing crowd, “Most of the songs played here are the sorts practiced for beginners.”

“I would still rather not,” Hux says, shifting away and letting the hand fall, then looking sideways at just the right moment to catch an odd, vacant look fall across Gheralt’s face. It becomes a few degrees more worrying when Gheralt stays that way for far too many seconds, “Prince Gheralt?”

“My apologies,” Gheralt says, suddenly taking a deep breath and lifting a hand to slide a few fingers against the beads woven into his hair.  “A dizzy spell – I’ve been having quite a few today.”

Hux nods slowly, “No matter, I’m sure.”

“Anyway, would you like a dance?” Gheralt says, shaking his head again, then clearing his throat and looking out across the floor. He sets his near-full glass back onto the bar, where it’s whisked away by an attendant, “It’s a very simple step – often taught to beginners.”

Hux stares for a long moment and slowly exhales, holding out his hand and firmly masking the grimace when Gheralt’s soft fingers curl into a grip. He is going to shoot – no, he’s going to _stab_ Ren tonight, and add another pair of scars to that patterned chest.

Gheralt tries to shift in closer right away, his hand sliding further up Hux’s arm with every low word of needless instruction to take a step here or there –  the notion of learning by observation seems to be entirely foreign to him. The step is as easy as promised, quickly determined through a few seconds of watching the feet of other dancers, and Hux feels almost insulted by the idea he'd need help.

After the pace is determined, Hux finds himself beginning to start at the few brushes against his back from the other dancers, and it nearly takes over the discomfort of Gheralt trying to coach him to a smoother beat. He’s heard from multiple instructors that fighting and dancing are similar, patterns of steps and repetition, but the next time he hears that line, he’s going to have the particular speaker air-locked. If this is a fight, then it feels like one he’s _losing_.

He makes sure to pull back as soon as the song is ended, nodding to Gheralt and resisting an urge to wipe the extraneous heat from his hands. It would be impossible, not to mention foolish-looking with his gloves, but he’s got a peculiar tingle of disgust spreading out from every point of contact with Gheralt.

“I, ah… I invited a few manufacturers and key officials of Oripha, if you're looking to gain allies,” Gheralt says, hands falling back to his sides with a tense smile. He gestures to a group standing near a rotating, vaguely mesmerizing fountain of petal-shaped objects. “I’m aware you’ve met with Schlera, but Yans is also a very competent manufacturer of the same product, and the owner is married to the representative for the region.”

“Fascinating,” Hux says, feeling a certain fatigue and an utter lack of interest in delving into the upper echelon of this city; he’s never quite gotten along with the entitled, and he's been forced to deal with them for _days_.

Gheralt blinks back slowly, almost as if he’s actually _noticed_ Hux’s reluctance. “I have also – “

“My Prince!” A voice interrupts, appearing suddenly at Gheralt’s side, pitched with excitement and accompanied by a reaching hand, “Please, indulge me with a dance.”

Gheralt looks absolutely startled, staring down with the confusion of one unused to being interrupted. He glances to Hux, eyes widening with a clear reluctance and then back to this small, rude interloper.

“I can navigate the guests on my own,” Hux says, gesturing shortly with his chin, gladly encouraging Gheralt and his wandering hands off into the party, and far, far away. “You have your own duties.”

“Well, yes,” Gheralt agrees, shoulders falling slightly as he slowly turns on his heel to face the interrupter. He hesitantly takes their still-offered hand, “Of course.”

Hux glances to the corners once Gheralt is firmly a few meters away and drifting further, engaging in a clumsy step with the assertive dancer. They were likely the work of Ren, with the abrupt, inarguable manner they spoke and the almost droid-like way they held out their hand, but Ren is as wraith-like as ever.

It does settle some restless agitation at the middle of his chest, after Ren had stalked off without a second word, but it seems that may have simply been his usual dramatics.

He drifts back toward the drinks bar, firmly decided on acquiring simple water, but finds himself nearly on his knees and reaching for one of the daggers when he’s shoved into by some utter ass. He half thinks it’s Ren being obnoxious, but finds himself glaring instead at an equally cumbersome oaf who is holding up their hands with an extreme look of panic.

“I am – I am so, so sorry, sir.”

“See that you watch yourself next time,” Hux says, letting his hand fall from his back and curl at his side. He glances past, looking for any extraneous cause, but it seems to simply be some case of an idiot running around where one is meant to walk; although… their attire nor accent are from Thvala, and Hux feels a crawl of suspicion up his spine. “Who are you?”

The surprise at still being addressed is obvious in their stilted step backward, a nervous chewing on their lips before answer with an affected bow. “I’m Belloc, a simple man of the people.”

Hux frowns, pressing his tongue to his teeth before choosing kindly to explain himself. “This is a private party. I'm concerned with unwanted guests.”

“Ah,” Belloc smiles diffidently, tipping his head, “I am part of the Oripha Council of Employers.”

Hux stares a moment longer, skeptical, but his knowledge of Oripha business sector is hardly comprehensive. The Council is real enough, so he relaxes his shoulders and turns back toward the bar; he could hardly deal with some hopeful Republic spy in such a crowd, even one so clumsy.

“Excuse me,” Hux barks, grabbing the bartender’s attention with a short wave of a hand. “Water.”

“We only have citric,” the bartender says, stepping aside and swinging a hand to their left. “With atwen petal.”

Hux follows the gesture toward a glass vat in the shape of a local flying creature, the water inside cloudy with some purple fruit, and comes close to hanging his head in frustration. “…That will be fine.”

Belloc appears again at Hux’s elbow, gentler this time, and hums with an odd smile across his lips, “I think I saw your picture today.”

Hux picks up the water glass with a low sigh, looking back to Belloc with a narrow glare. He lifts an eyebrow when it's met with awkward silence rather than an uncomfortable retreat, and tips his head, choosing to entertain the conversation a few moments longer.

Belloc smiles tightly, a hesitant laugh entering his voice, “You or Prince Ben, right? I think you probably have a better chance.”

“Prince Ben is dead, and I am engaged,” Hux says, turning from the side of the bar and gesturing toward the middle of the room with his glass. “Spread that around.”

“Engaged?” Belloc repeats, an unsettled look casting his face before it’s overtaken again by that odd, forced cheer. “That wasn’t in the articles.”

“He’s also here, but not particularly keen on attention,” Hux says dryly, taking a hesitant sip of his citric water, only to find with some relief that it tastes far less flowery than he had feared. “I’d still avoid running into me again.”

The play of realization over Belloc’s face is more entertaining than the rest of the evening put together, the rapid blinking of surprise a perfect culmination, “You mean – Your guard? You’d rather marry _him_ than the Prince?”

“I would,” Hux says, startling slightly at the unexpected note of honesty in his voice. He takes another drink of the water, swiftly burying a sudden crawl of vague, inane notions. “I couldn’t care that Gheralt is a Prince – you’re free to have him.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t – I don’t have an interest in him,” Belloc says, nervously licking at his lower lip and giving another one of those diffident laughs. He glances sideways, presumably toward Gheralt dancing on in the middle of the room, betraying his own lie. “I was just… You must care for your guard a lot to risk a quarrel with Thvala itself.”

“His value goes far beyond security,” Hux says, imagining this little man calling Ren a mere guard to his face and subsequently allowing himself a short huff.

Belloc smiles back, but looks away for a short moment. “I’m sure.”          

“Ah, General, there you are,” Gheralt says, voice appearing at the edge of Hux’s awareness, hand materializing a moment later and gently drawing attention in his usual pseudo-demure manner. “A representative for Giyar is very eager to speak to you.”

“How opportune,” Hux says, feeling almost begrudging at the fact that it may be a valid idea to speak to someone from the city he’s meant to visit tomorrow. He looks to the side, attempting to politely dismiss Belloc, but finds him already gone.

~

The lift ride back to the rooms is one of the tensest Hux has experienced with Ren, which is certainly saying something, and adds the new dimension of overall ignorance to the mix. It could be regarding the earlier crossing of boundaries, but it doesn't have the particular aire of Ren's anger, nor does it seem particularly directed.

It becomes even more frustrating when Ren sees fit to trail Hux into the bedroom, then settle in front of the window with a melodramatic exhale. It's not a particularly familiar behavior from Ren, too passive by half.

“I can’t read minds,” Hux says, sitting down on the tall bed and reaching for the daggers at his back, the boots at his feet, and setting both sets at the edge of a stand. He will be glad to be rid of both after this particular night. “Either brood somewhere else or indulge me with speech.”

Ren only speaks after another few moments staring out the wide window, helmet still firmly in place and resultantly making the innocuous words sound a threat. “Last night, your dreams were mundane, but invasive. Impossible ships, troop formations, shifting patterns of numbers.”

Hux glances up with a mild curiosity toying dangerously around his mind. He cannot fathom what direction Ren is trying to take this line of conversation, but has an impression that it will be wholly absurd, “Are you asking me to stop my own subconscious?”

“You also had another, more spectacular,” Ren continues, still staring out the window and speaking slow, “Quick flashes of a wide pavilion, superior and addressing wide crowds – “

“A childhood fantasy,” Hux interjects, swallowing with a new sense of trepidation; shouldn’t Ren have tattled to the Supreme Leader? “I’m sure even you had a few.”

“And yet, you are just as close to attaining it as I am far from mine,” Ren says, and his hands are curled tight at his sides when he turns around, chin tilted up with undeniable petulance. “The Sovereign may have had a point regarding the particular… usefulness of a certain partner.”

“I’ve never held inclination of _sharing_ this abstract position, Ren,” Hux says, diving off the precipice with a reluctant exhale. It’s been made clear that Ren cares little for the implication of treason, even seems to encourage it in a weird, backward manner. “It’s not as if Gheralt can produce an heir. I hardly need a pretty partner when I can simply find a suitable child in one of the orphanages, preferably one showing signs of engineering and leadership prowess.”

Ren is silent for a long few moments, then tilts his head like a confused beast.

“I conceived the idea when I was a child, myself,” Hux says, swallowing back the nervous urge to bite at the inside of his lip, to dig fingernails to his palms. “I’ve thought of most eventualities, adding a few amendments with age.”

Ren takes off his helmet and sets it on the far bureau; his mouth clenched with some uncertain emotion, eyes downcast, “Consider rescinding your refusal of the proposal. I will not be offended.”

Hux responds with a scoff, eyes following Ren to argue the ridiculous notion, only to blink in disbelief when the door to the refresher shuts between them. He stares at the door, shocked and growing mildly angry – how dare Ren say something so inflammatory and then _run away?_ Granted, it’s hardly the first time, but Hux and he are stuck in the same room for the night, the same bed, and not across a three kilometer ship.

“I am rescinding nothing,” Hux calls, running both hands through his hair to loosen it from the wax. His freedom isn’t the only thing in question here – his pride is also at stake. How would it look for him to cast aside one fiancé for another in the space of a week? Especially when he would be trading a literal Knight, with the strength to crush starships, for a simpering, gilded Prince.

It’s literally inconceivable. Yes, the Sovereign made a lovely argument, but Hux is just as capable as Gheralt at playing coy for credits. (If it turns out he isn’t, then Ren can kill the unlucky sods in a myriad of mysterious ways; it all levels out.)

Hux stands and begins to uncuff his jacket, wandering into the main room and gently folding it across the back of the sofa. He glances sideways toward the small, complimentary conservator, wondering if they have anything palatable, only to stop on his own heel when an unsolicited thought surfaces: Ren may be encouraging him toward Gheralt for selfish reasons.

Hux bites at his own lip, sinking to the sofa and trying to recall any other recent oddities. Ren plays a well-enough ascetic, but there's no proof any of it’s remotely true, and Hux had hardly seen him tonight between Gheralt and his many acquaintances, so Ren may very well have gotten caught up with some other guest in the intervening hours.

The soft glide of the refresher door draws Hux out of his thoughts, an intense rush of irritation filling the space behind his eyes as he chooses to turn and confront the problem directly. “Have you actually met someone?”

Ren blinks a few times too many, his helmet too far to mask his confusion. Actually, the entirety of his usual attire is missing, replaced by sparse droplets of water and a pair of standard briefs, his hair dark and slicked down to his shoulders, but Hux _refuses_ to be distracted by this utter lack of decency. He refuses to be distracted by Ren at all.

“At the event,” Hux says, standing up from the sofa and harboring an unfamiliar resentment that he dares not look at too closely. Instead, he leans into Ren’s space, a scowl twisting at his mouth, “Is that why you're suddenly so eager to shunt me off to Gheralt?”

Ren’s brow furrows slowly, “I spoke only to you tonight.”

“We both know you don’t need words to speak,” Hux scoffs, leaning back on his heels and narrowing his eyes, swallowing back an unfounded rise of nausea. He couldn’t… He doesn’t _care_ that Ren must go around with everyone supplementing his awkward speech with the press of thoughts, a veritable whispering in the ears, but he would appreciate a little notice if it’s going to compromise.

Ren’s eyes meet Hux’s for a rare moment, then dart away and narrow at some middle-distance. “I have no reason to do that.”

Hux sneers, lowering his voice shoving hard into Ren's space, “You cannot even make up an excuse.”

Ren takes a heaving breath, a wide snarl suddenly appearing across his lips, though it does little to make his soft face fearsome. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then make me,” Hux snaps, lifting a hand and feeling so brave in his frustration to shove at a tense shoulder with an open palm. He barely has a moment to realize that he might be earning himself a broken hand in the scant time that Ren simply shifts forward again, seemingly unaware of the breach of unspoken contract.

“I cannot just – ” Ren swallows, hands curling tight to his sides as he visibly restrains himself; his shoulders very visibly tensing now with unnecessary wrath, “I don’t reveal myself like that to every _stranger_ I meet. It’s not like that; it’s not done.”

Hux exhales hard through his nose, looking sideways, “I’ve seen what you do to prisoners.”

“It’s not the same!” Ren says, in a veritable roar that ends with a dangerous creak of the walls as effective punctuation. “I should not have to explain.”

“What?” Hux says mockingly, refusing to take a step back even in the face of Ren’s notorious lack of control. “Are you saying I’m the only one you speak to that way?”

“Yes,” Ren says, jaw tensing so starkly that Hux would swear he can hear teeth crack, “That is exactly. What I am saying.”

Hux takes a short breath, opening his mouth and sure he has some retort to make, only to find nothing forthcoming. He feels wrong-footed suddenly, faced with such an answer far left of his assumptions, and effectively reducing the current argument to null.

“General,” a voice interjects, familiar and infuriating in equal measure, “Are you two alright?”

Hux looks over with a sharp inhale, cursing himself for being taken by surprise, to face an interloper who seems to have taken the liberty of stepping through the room’s apparently broken entry door, “Yes, Gheralt, I am fine.”

“You’re always _interrupting_ ,” Ren snaps, contrasting sharply to Hux's forced calm and punctuating his words with a widely sweeping gesture that ends with a pointed finger at the door. “Get out!”

“Wh- who are... Are you Kylo Ren? You look a – “ Gheralt pauses abruptly, more akin to a holovid than a person, his entire body freezing before he can state the obvious. His eyes blink rapidly, darting across the sides of the room in clear panic before landing firmly on Hux.

“Oh, hells,” Hux says, shifting away from Ren and stepping forward to inspect the crooked and straining mechanization and the blown out tracks of the door behind Gheralt. He sighs slowly, lifting a hand and sliding fingers across his own brow, “What have you done to the front door?”

“You started it,” Ren says, his voice tense and short, and… And bafflingly surrounded by a familiar modulation.

Hux nearly twists his ankle in his haste to turn back around, some part of his mind unwilling to take this new sight of Ren in nothing more than briefs and his helmet, dark hair curling out the back and stark against the pale of his shoulders. “Oh, you do look ridiculous – couldn’t you have summoned some trousers?”

“Priority,” Ren says, the strain of the word appearing to spread down his neck and straight into his wide chest, tightening the muscle underneath his held-out arm.

It’s easily the most… _horrible_ thing Hux has ever laid eyes on, yet he cannot stop staring. He tries to remember how little he dwelled on this morning, but his mind is relentless in pointing out that Ren hadn’t been wet, or flushed, or heaving with anger – that he had never before stumbled through a pretext of the _specialness_ of their reciprocal telepathy.

A sharp breath blessedly draws Hux’s attention back to Gheralt, and he watches as those wide, shocked eyes flutter closed before his body abruptly falls to the ground, as if a puppet with no master.

“I’m going to make him believe it was a dream,” Ren says, pushing past Hux and casually lifting Gheralt in a smooth motion over his shoulder; the muscles of his back stretch and contract, just as awful as those on the other side. He steps toward the open door, barely pausing to check for any stray onlookers, “It will be easy with… your recent conversation.”

Hux follows, mildly curious and entirely uneager to be left standing like some sort of fool for the umpteenth time. “You don’t believe sudden appearance of your helmet will be at odds with his memory?”

Ren declines to answer, holding a hand over the locking mechanism until Gheralt’s door slides open with a smooth hiss. The inside is a mess of formal clothing and feathered cloaks, a few trunks spilled open and strewn about the sitting room like an expensive trail.

Hux takes in the sight with a disgusted frown, “Is slovenliness inborn to you spoiled brats?”

Ren exhales with a low sigh, the mask amplifying his obvious irritation. He gruffly throws Gheralt on top of the poster bed in the center of the room, stretching his shoulders at the effort, and starts an odd sweep of his gaze around bureaus and cabinets.

Hux catches on rather quick, realizing with some discomfort that Ren is likening this to the situation a few mornings ago, “What does he drink?”

Ren turns with a tip of his head, “Does it matter?”

“If he wakes to find a dark liquor at his side when he dislikes the taste, yes,” Hux says, mildly irritated at the complete lack of sense. “Could you look in his mind?”

“He might wake,” Ren says, glancing down to the haphazard form of Gheralt.

“Of course,” Hux mutters, rubbing a few fingers across his brow in thought, then sighing and turning toward the main room. It doesn’t need to be a _leftover_ drink, merely a glass that smells like it had once been full.

Ren comes out of the bedroom at the moment Hux swallows down a gulp of Calamari burnon, the taste leaving a mild film along his tongue and throat; he has never had it before, but the sight of it in the cabinet seemed some serendipity. He had seen Gheralt peering with interest at the bottles downstairs only a few hours ago, and can hope it was more in recognition than curiosity, unlike this particular sip.

He barely manages not to choke as he hands the glass to Ren, the film starting to prickle and sting where it laid thickest inside his mouth. He smacks his lips against the feeling, wary and certain in equal measures that it is only going to make the sensation worse.

Ren stares at him, shoulders hitching up in an approximation of concern. His helmet tilts markedly downward to the open bottle, “Have you poisoned yourself? Humans aren’t meant to drink burnon.”

“Take it,” Hux rasps, more emphatically shoving the glass at Ren’s hands and ignoring the horrifying wetness he feels around his eyes in reaction to the pain. “Go.”

Ren takes the glass, but doesn’t make a move to step away, instead letting it fly on it’s own across the rooms and presumably onto the table at Gheralt’s side. He steps forward without warning and lifts a hand, curling it completely around the edges of Hux’s face and jaw with almost disturbing ease.

“Let go of me,” Hux says, only able to speak a few words before Ren wrenches his jaw open with an ungentle grip. Hux tries to grumble something and stares at the vaulted ceiling, hating himself a little for just letting this happen, but what could he even do?

“It doesn’t seem to have injured anything,” Ren mutters, relaxing his grip and kindly allowing Hux to shut his own mouth, a pair of fingers sweeping now across his cheek to catch a few of the tears threatening to fall down his chin. “Physically.”

Hux shoves at him, trying to force Ren away and wipe his face at the same time; damn physiology. “Getting bold, aren’t you?”

“What was that?” Ren asks, leaning in with an obnoxious sideways tilt of his helmet. “You seem to be whispering.”

A sudden clatter from the hall draws Hux’s attention away from contemplating the few options he has open to effectively kill Ren, and he glances sideways before stepping toward the door with a new sense of reluctance. He’s barely half-dressed, Ren near completely unclothed, and they’ll be exiting the hotel room of Thvala’s darling prince – his absolutely terrific night is just spiraling at this point.

He glances to Ren, an idea forming at the desperate centers of his mind. “Are you able to turn others just as imperceptible as yourself?”

“What do you mean,” Ren asks, cocking his giant head like it will dissuade any further questions.

“Do you seriously think that I don’t know what you’re doing when you suddenly appear at my back?” Hux snaps, only to curl his mouth into a pained grimace when the outburst cuts against his tender throat. He swallows tightly, “Answer the question.”

Ren shifts slightly, a small twitch of a shrug accompanied by a low sigh, “I have yet to try.”

“You will now,” Hux says, reaching forward and gently initiating the door to open in front of them. His back straightens in reflex when he feels a set of fingers curl against his side, and glances back with a sharp glare to find Ren narrowly shaking his head.

“Quiet,” Ren says, the growl of his helmet too loud in the silent room; for once, he seems to realize his own folly by the inward curl of his shoulders.

Hux only exhales in response, leaning through the adjoining doorway and quickly finding a trio of staff clustered around the stuck door. He feels a sudden urge to reach up and press fingers into his own eyes, and lingering pain is the only thing keeping him from allowing his head to fall to his chest.

Ren’s trick seems to work, if judging by the way they’re ignored when they slip past the worried onlookers, and Hux shoves into the refresher with an urgent swallow and a desperate grab for Ren’s damp clothing from the floor. He will have to reclaim his own jacket and boots after Ren is decent.

“Get dressed,” Hux says, straightening and buttoning his own collar with quick fingers, glancing at the mirror to reorder his hair into something presentable. “We will pretend it is some assassination attempt done while we were still at the event.”

“It should be fixed easily,” Ren says, shucking his cloak over his shoulders with surprising lack of fight. He glances downward, away and toward the edges of the bath, at the trousers still haphazardly crumpled in the corner. “I didn’t… It wasn’t bad.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The allure of the unattainable is often difficult to ignore, Prince Gheralt, and a Knight of Ren is most unattainable of all.”
> 
> Gheralt gives outright scoff, shaking his head and frowning at an undeserving plate of pastry. “Nothing about that man is alluring, General.”
> 
> “He’s not that bad,” Hux says, hearing his own voice against his ears as if from a third party. He wonders if he’s absolutely lost his mind, or is perhaps developing some sort of hostage syndrome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry that this took this long, and to anyone still reading this story, thank you very much.

“I cannot believe what nearly happened,” Gheralt says, exhaling with a low hum and folding himself into the opposing chair. He’s wearing an unusually restrained outfit compared to the last few days, the only extravagance a jeweled torc over a sweeping, layered scarf, and his people have spread out a passable imitation of a breakfast feast, if only for two. “Especially when I was only next door.”

Hux slowly pours his caf, watching the steam rise and disappear, and takes a moment to rehearse before speaking – he has little experience with this sort of speechcraft, which is something of a failing. “Terrible business, yes, but the offender was a coward in the end.”

“A coward?” Gheralt repeats, finely sculpted brows going straight up.

Hux shrugs a single shoulder, leaning back into the sofa with drink in hand. “They fled.”

“Oh, well,” Gheralt says, glancing back down to the pastry-laden table with an odd frown. “Yes.”

Hux takes a sip of caf, looking out across the wide portholes to the near-perfect curve of atmosphere. The singular benefit of this being forced to travel with Gheralt is the fact he would hardly have such a view from the usual transport, but that’s the consequence of being designed for war rather than leisure.

“My guard tells me you sought other lodgings,” Gheralt says, voice rising with a certain note of prickly interest, as if he thinks he should have been brought along on the venture.

“The city… looked intriguing. Last night,” Hux says, knowing he sounds worse than Ren at his most awkward. “It was not difficult to find a place to sleep.”

It's a rather loose truth; he did see more of the city from the stratospheric hovering of the _Upsilon_. The shuttle had been called nearly the moment after leaving the hotel with mildly altered camdroids, both in the unlikely case the hotel managed to discover out the truth, but also because he hadn’t been too keen to linger in a place he’d so easily manipulated the safety measures of – it hardly felt _secure_ at that point.

If he had felt oddly on-edge in the few moments before and after sleeping, alone in the cool dark of the tiny shuttle bunk, it’s really neither here nor there. Similarly, is the negligible fact he left and found Ren in the same stiff pilot seat, as if he hadn't moved a centimeter in the night.

“Oh, that reminds me,” Gheralt says, setting his tea down with the sharp clink and short screech of ceramic. A single hand begins to toy at his scarf, pulling at it before flatting against his chest. “I had a rather odd dream last night.”

Hux glances up between blinks, forcibly straightening his brow into a dispassionate line. “Hm?”

“I almost don't want to say anything, but…” Gheralt trails off, a dark flush crawling up his neck to contrast the jeweled torc. He huffs a laugh, shrugging his shoulder, “In it, I found myself peeking in on your rooms, perhaps in search of company, only to find you kissing Prince Ben right there next to the couch.”

Hux stares for a moment, then slowly blinks, attempting to cover his _tremendous_ disbelief by peeking down at his caf and acting as if contemplating a sweetener. Did Ren ill-advisedly imbed that idea, or is Gheralt just that vulgar? He slowly picks up a syrup, then sets it back down, retaking the cup, “Too much to drink, perhaps?”

“Perhaps,” Gheralt agrees, mouth pursing into a prim moue, eyes narrowing at some middle distance. He hums suddenly, focusing back on Hux, “Do you remember what he looked like?”

Hux pauses the caf a few centimeters from his lips, exhales shortly, and chooses to continue the ignorant act. “...Not especially.”

“Easily remedied,” Gheralt says, unheeded and reaching down to pull his data pad from within some mystery pocket. It is covered with shiny plastene stones in a rainbow of colors, sporting various designs of a grek. “The media was absolutely bloodthirsty for him.”

The over-bright screen is unceremoniously shoved forward, and on it Hux finds himself staring at a singular low-res holo-loop. A patently familiar figure stands in the middle of some small private garden, dressed in worn training garb and surrounded by a litany of small statues; his eyes flicker upward, mouth tightening, then the loop abruptly starts over _._ The visible shift of those shoulders is familiar enough that it's clear why the clip is so short.

A short cough breaks the silence, and Hux pulls his eyes away, unsure what reaction he’s expected to give aside from indifference – is he meant to suddenly understand why Gheralt imagined them _kissing_? All Hux sees here is an unusually justified start for Ren’s habit of destruction. 

“He was rather less boyish in the dream, largely due to… personal notion,” Gheralt says, unprompted, tipping his head primly and pulling the data pad back with a lingering glance downward. “One gets a few hopeful ideas when they think they’re destined to entertain another intimately.”

“Ah,” Hux intones, swallowing against a circuit of agitating thoughts. The sudden innuendo is a predictable drop of lewdness into the conversation, but while Hux has grown used to it regarding himself, he’s taken aback at the addition of Ren.

Or Prince Ben, depending on one’s delusion.

“A shame he hardly lived up to the fantasy,” Gheralt continues, leaning back in his chair with another thoughtful look to his data pad. A huff crosses his open mouth, “Aside from that famous pout, of course.”

Hux carefully blinks, trying to will away an abrupt swell of irritation. He even manages a full drink of his caf, relishing the taste and shifting the bitterness against the edges of his tongue; it would be perfect if it weren't for present company.

“And, you must tell no one this, but,” Gheralt takes a short breath, overeager in his gossip mongering and wetting his lips in a smooth motion.  He stares at Hux under thick lashes, voice lowering, “But amongst all his rudeness, I even managed a short taste of it in the eaves.”

Hux feels something in his chest suddenly fall heavy and sharpen, an effective spike digging against his sternum. He settles his jaw and does his best to affect an apathetic stare. “I’d rather not muse on the same subject a second morning in a row, if it’s all the same.”

Gheralt glances up with apparent surprise, but his lips soon curl into a narrow smirk. “My apologies.”

Hux narrows his eyes, taking another slow sip of his caf and then setting it back down. He doesn’t understand the sudden smugness, unless Ren’s identity has possibly – ah, wait, Gheralt must be taking this as some indication Hux is jealous of past… intimacies. It is almost astonishing how he grows more delusional with every next moment.

“As for different subjects, I have been wondering of your interests, General,” Gheralt says, still sporting that infuriating expression and leaning back into his seat. “If cliché holds true, a quiet man such as yourself must have such fascinating pastimes.”

“My work and little else,” Hux answers, practically feeling the acerbic tone sear at his own tongue. He has suddenly little patience for Gheralt’s conversational foibles, and tries to think a few hours ahead, of the meeting with the Giyar comptroller looming at every passing kilometer.

“I recall you dabble in astrodesign work, which is something like a hobby,” Gheralt says, seemingly determined to carry this line of question into conversation. His memory also seems to be recovering after the past couple days, which is something between an utter relief and a terrible shame. “Have you been putting anything together as of late?”

Hux sighs gently through his nose, staring down at his caf and entertaining the idea of outright ignoring Gheralt, then resigning to the fact that questions will doubtlessly keep coming until the shuttle lands. He rubs shortly at his brow, keeping his eyes at the table and his tone curt. “A speeder.”

It’s only a fraction accurate, but Hux cannot exactly confront Gheralt with the most advanced weapon of mass destruction in recorded history. It's his proudest achievement to date, but not exactly something to bring up in civilian conversation.

“Oh?” Gheralt intones, eyes widening with that certain baffled, almost entirely fake interest of the uninformed and uneducated. “What’s it like?”

“Black, some amount contractible to form,” Hux says, leaning into his seat and relaxing somewhat as he’s distracted with pondering on how he might fit an entire speeder into the tiny _Upsilon_. He imagines the petulance of Ren finding the small living quarters halved again, and suddenly another idea occurs with the distinct taste of spite, though directed more at the man in front of him. “Lord Ren has wanted one to match his ship, so I may as well indulge both our curiosities.”

Gheralt furrows his brow, mouth pinching into a narrow moue of discontent. “You’re one to indulge?”

“As a rule, no,” Hux says, feeling that particular satisfaction of the conversation turning back into his hand. A few words here and there of how very _singular_ Ren is will do good to deter Gheralt, though only if Ren is entirely unaware and unable to be haughty. “However, Lord Ren must be rather delicately managed.”

“Ah,” Gheralt intones, blinking a few times and retaking his tea.

Hux glances slowly downward, curling his lips slightly and barely managing to control a smirk. He almost wants to stage a small demonstration, but he's also fairly certain that Ren won't agree, which would be difficult to work around.

“I… I must confess to being curious about something else, General,” Gheralt starts, budging forward a few more centimeters and lifting a hand to gesture at the other cabin, which is almost subtle of him. “This closeness with a man so unlike you, I simply… cannot understand.”

Hux suppresses the immediate instinct to remind Gheralt of exactly how little he knows, instead taking a slow breath and trying to seem more contemplative than annoyed. He looks in the same direction, taking a moment to consider reasons that someone, presumably quite mad, would approach Ren with intimate intentions. “The allure of the unattainable is often difficult to ignore, Prince Gheralt, and a Knight of Ren is most unattainable of all.”

Gheralt gives outright scoff, shaking his head and frowning at an undeserving plate of pastry. “Nothing about that man is alluring, General.”

“He’s not that bad,” Hux says, hearing his own voice against his ears as if from a third party. He wonders if he’s absolutely lost his mind, or is perhaps developing some sort of hostage syndrome.

Gheralt inhales with sudden fervor, eyes narrowing into a glare and jaw visibly flexing; his voice lowers as well, less airy and absent artificial diffidence. “The brute _destroyed_ my mother’s crystal holotable without a single thought.”

Hux stares, finding himself mildly speechless and entirely too amused. He lifts a hand and covers the beginnings of a smile with the back of his knuckles. “I did warn of his temper.”

“I can only think what he would have done to those would-be assassins should they have succeeded,” Gheralt says, blinking rapidly and taking a short breath, his diffident act recovering in mere moments. “It would have been abhorrent.”

“Oh, entirely,” Hux agrees, feeling rather eager as he watches the shudder of revulsion travel across Gheralt’s shoulders.

A quiet hiss preludes the entrance of the proverbial devil, slowly sweeping into the room with an unsurprising cacophony of unhappy voices coming from behind him. Ren seems not to hear them, treating Hux to a soft swipe of his mind while settling on Gheralt with one of his long, disquieting stares. “Your guard needs to speak to you.”

“Y-your Highness, I’m s-so sorry,” the guard says, words rushed and shoulders visibly slumping with resignation. They glancing pointedly at Ren, then roll their eyes away, “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

Gheralt sighs almost theatrically, rising from his chair and turning with a short gesture, “What is it, then?”

“Asuran Designs wishes to speak more about…” the guard trails off, glancing furtively at Hux before looking down to the floor. “The order, your highness.”

“Ah, I need to take this,” Gheralt says, waving off the guard. He exhales shortly, straightening his scarf, even pulling at the middle with an odd glance to Ren, then looks back to Hux. “It was a lovely breakfast – I’m sure we’ll have many more to make up for this interruption.”

Hux tips his head, sliding his eyes away to deter any further attempts at conversation. He listens to the soft footfalls, the hiss of the door, and hates the undeniable feeling of relief once Gheralt’s voice can officially no longer circulate the small room. The mere implication he may be stuck in this position for the rest of his life, or until madness begets murder, sets a new panic to be wrestled into calm repression.

It's been three days of politely rebuffing Gheralt, yet his resolve to end this trip in engagement seems to only get stronger.

“I refuse to be stuck alone in conversation with him again,” Hux murmurs, glancing up as Ren drifts further in and next to the sofa. He tips a hand sideways, gesturing toward him, “It always leads back to you, be it his past _obsession_ or his present distaste.”

Ren sighs heavily, shifting his attention away from the porthole and tilting his head downward. “Neither of you are comfortable talking about personal matters.”

Hux stares back, an ugly feeling forming in the back of his throat that is patently furious, yet he finds himself unable to argue the point. He’s not sure half the bridge staff even knows his full name, but that doesn’t give Ren clearance to compare him to _Gheralt_. “Have you been rummaging around in his head as well, then?”

“No need,” Ren says, lifting a hand and nearly touching a pair of gloved fingers to the center of Hux’s forehead, only deterred by a sharp lean backward. “He’s nearly transparent as you.”

“That judgment is relative,” Hux says, exhaling through his nose and reaching down for his data pad beneath the layers of uneaten food and drink.

Ren leans down, both hands curling against the arm of the sofa, “Those aren’t messages, General Hux.”

Hux debates a moment before tipping the screen upward and allowing himself an absent smirk. The program is finished digging, a blinking cursor and a list of encrypted routes when he taps in a show command, but he’s not sure what Ren might see on display. “Someone will need to be on the inside to get anything, obviously, but this was… satisfying. Corellian is insecure for a place full of _thieves_.”

Ren taps the screen back toward Hux, “Petty.”

“Stop hovering,” Hux says, glancing up with narrowed eyes and a low huff. “Sit.”

Ren is silent for a beat, entire helmet shifting as he looks between the empty space next to Hux, then the one across from him. “You want me to join?

“Not exactly,” Hux says, gesturing cyclically with a single hand and sighing shortly through his nose. He points to his side, shifting his legs when Ren steps over. “You make him too uncomfortable to engage in insipid conversation.”

Ren slumps into the sofa, weighing it down and summarily shifting his posture until both legs are stiffly parallel to the seat and both hands atop his knees. His breath comes heavy through the modulator, staring across to Gheralt’s empty chair like Supreme Leader is judging him from it.

“You look like a deactivated droid,” Hux mutters, lilting his voice upward with every word.

“How exactly am I supposed to look?” Ren asks, going peevish and curt through the modulator. His helmet turns away just enough that it’s clear he’s close to sulking, as if sitting like a normal human is tragically beyond his capabilities.

Hux feels the first strands of a terrible idea begin winding into shape, inspired entirely from this ridiculous circumstance, then hears the actual _words_ escape his mouth. “More friendly, I’d think.”

Ren is silent for a long beat, then looks up with clear skepticism in the hunch of his shoulders. “…Friendly?”

Hux swallows thickly and reaches out, holding his hand hovering still for a moment before taking hold of Ren's wrist in a loose grip. It's difficult to really tell, between the helmet and not really looking himself, but he’s about a hundred and twenty percent sure that he's being gaped at behind all that steel and silver; he knows the feeling of it from within his own mind.

Ren's hand seems to grow larger when Hux drops it gently on the top of his own thigh, warm through gloves and trousers both. He exhales and leans back, trying to smother the rush of mortified heat from his ears to his naval. It's barely affectionate, let alone truly intimate, but Hux has hardly been the type to suffer physically clingy partners, and his mind is trying to convince him he can feel every beat of Ren’s pulse.

It's probably just his own.

He shifts a few centimeters further just as the door slides open, and the journey from friendly to bemused to petulant across Gheralt's face manages to distract from the situation until a cold faceplate is abruptly digging hard into the space between his shoulder and neck. It’s perhaps the very last thing Hux had expected to happen, and he nearly yelps aloud from surprise.

His hand has come up in reflex, and he remembers in only a split second not to shove away, leaving his fingers to awkwardly curl near the edge of the mask. _‘What in four hells are you **doing**?’_

Ren’s grip only tightens, though the position is still too much a play at closeness for it to be truly threatening. Instead, it almost comes off as… nerves.

It's more likely Ren knows it looks like he’s whispering something rude, which is an off-putting enough idea that a shiver of revulsion travels across Hux’s shoulders. He huffs and shifts his hand, laying the pads of his fingers lightly against the exposed edge of the helm and pressing forward until his collarbone no longer feels at risk of snapping from the weight of a fool. He taps lightly with his thumb near the area of an ear, a quiet, futile warning, then drops his hand and retakes the data pad as if this is all situation normal; he dug this hole, and may as well bury himself in it.

Gheralt turns away a few seconds later, a sign of mission accomplished, and the door slides closed behind him. It doesn’t seem to be enough of a signal for _Ren_ to move away again, who even shifts his hand a few centimeters, fingers curling further in and around Hux’s inner thigh. It’s definitely forward enough to be officially reprimanded, if Hux was so inclined and Ren held to that sort of regulation. 

A reverberating sigh breaks the relative silence, _‘You’re so thin.’_

Hux stiffens his hold on the data pad, ignoring how the words send something old slithering up to bite at his mind. He takes a breath, shoving away the lingering _stress_ from all the closeness, and concentrates closer on watching the program brute-force the accounts that Corellian has seen fit to guard their secrets. He’ll probably get nowhere, but it will set someone in the company into a defensive panic.

Ren digs his armored chin into the narrow space between Hux’s neck and shoulder, his response to being ignored demonstrably petulant even without that sullen tone. _‘You said he was meant to be uncomfortable.’_

“I also said your very presence was enough,” Hux says, speaking aloud and uncaring of whatever pact he may be breaking; he feels like he’s being strangled by an overwarm blanket. “This makes you seem either an exhibitionist or a jealous dog.”

_‘It is you who – ‘_

Hux interrupts the excuse with an elbow toward Ren’s side, shocked at himself even as he sends a harsh drag up against a few unprotected ribs.

Ren huffs, the noise like surprise through the vocoder, and quickly grabs at Hux’s wrist; his hand is of such a size that it fits as a veritable shackle, but at least it’s no longer a distracting presence on his thigh. “Your entire body is like a weapon, and I don't mean that as a compliment to your skill.”

Hux tries to pull his hand back, setting his data pad on a precarious position at the sofa back to easier brace himself on the cushions. “Unhand me, you brat.”

“That would be you,” Ren says, scoffing quietly in some unfamiliar manner that might actually be a laugh – how absolutely infuriating. “I was helpful.”

“Helpful,” Hux spits, twisting his hand out of Ren’s grip at the thumb and trying to jab him at the soft side of his neck with the other. “ _Helpful_?”

Ren actually seems to flounder, grabbing both of Hux’s hands at the last moment with surprisingly little use of Force. He pushes down until the daggers dig into Hux’s back against the cushions of the sofa, the loose edges of his robes falling heavy over Hux’s knees as he looms like coalesced shadow. His brutish size gives him a mild upper hand, but only barely, because he is breathing as if on a marathon, voice escaping the modulator in a rushed growl. “What the – Are you crazy?”

“Me? You are having a laugh,” Hux scoffs, rolling his eyes upward to catch some contact through that dark visor.

He shifts his hips and widens his legs, forcing Ren to rebalance unsteadily on the narrow sofa, and pretends not to notice the sudden thinness of his own breath. He's simply unused to hand-to-hand in this sort of environment, is all, nothing to do with anyone's very muscular, very strong thighs with the doubtless ability to hold certain things in certain positions for long periods of time.

“Careful,” Ren says, hands flexing so the tightness is uncomfortable, but nowhere near true pain. “I may snap your hollow bones by accident.”

Hux ignores the threat, pausing his struggling and curling a leg around the back of Ren’s to get leverage. He’s just about to shove up to bridge with the other knee when the door slides open, breaking the odd bubble of… something in the room. He twists around to look upside down at the entry, inhaling sharply when he sees the glint off a familiar-enough torc beside a single gawking guard. The data pad falls to the ground in the same instant, a heavy clunk that spurs a low, hysterical note of dismay to escape Hux’s lips.

Gheralt stares for another long moment from the doorway, his eyes darting up from Ren and down to Hux a few more times than strictly needful. “I’m… I do apologize. We’re about to land.”

Hux nods stiffly, dropping his leg from ready position and back to the cushion – while this would be the perfect time to catch Ren off guard and twist him over the side of the sofa, it would hardly send the right message to Gheralt.

“Are you – ” Gheralt emits an odd squeak, abruptly moving backward in a manner that makes it probable he was pulled by the bold guard. He seems to try and say something else, but the door falls closed in front of him with a quiet hiss that easily muffles the words.

Hux exhales slowly, closing his eyes and feeling his dignity shrivel into nothing. What had come over him? He’s a bloody General on a diplomatic mission for his organization, not a trifling cadet with a quarrel. “I think its finally time for you to take my head, Ren.”

Ren’s hands flex noticeably from their hold around Hux’s wrists, “You supposed to shoot first.”

“Ah,” Hux intones, sighing again and opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling of the shuttle. He tries to move his arms, but Ren still hasn’t let up, so he tips his chin down to give a dubious glare. “Get _off_.”

Ren is silent for a beat, then positively stumbles onto his back foot and then the arm of the sofa in haste to move backward. He’s staring at the ports again when Hux finishes straightening his coat, and is so intent that it almost seems there might be something more than day-to-day travel on the horizon.

“I have to meet with the comptroller of Thvala’s hyperspace trade,” Hux says, reaching up and attempting to settle his hair with an unsteady hand. His wax is underneath the floor in his luggage, and there is little chance he’ll be able to retrieve it, but it’s easier to concentrate on this slight imperfection than the persistent staccato of his pulse. “Are you going to be menacing in the hall or the boardroom?”

Ren continues to breathe for a long few moments, as if truly thinking, “The boardroom.”

~

“Please wait a moment, sir,” the droid says, tapping at an encrypted holoscreen with stiff movements. It looks up, eyes flashing in an imitation of blinking, “Comptroller Sihnago has been notified and is currently on her way.”

Hux exhales lowly, straightening his jacket and stepping backward, “Of course.”

 _‘This place is…’_ Ren pauses, turning his head to look across the lobby. _‘Odd.’_

 _‘I see it,’_ Hux agrees, glancing in the same direction to a trio of employees behind reception. The uniformity in clothing, the synced tics between speakers – it’s as if they all came out of an Order academy.

“It is good to finally meet you in person, General Hux, my name is Arania Sihnago,” a woman says, inadvertently interrupting as she sweeps into the lobby with a pair of near identically dressed assistants at her back. She holds out her hand, waiting until Hux shakes it once before leaning away. “If you’ll follow me, we can go to my meeting room. Your bodyguard can – “

“I’ll be sitting in,” Ren interrupts, titling his chin down a moment before returning to staring straight over Sihnago’s head.

“You’re in no danger here, I assure you,” Sihnago says, folding her sheer-sleeved hands together and nodding to Hux rather than directly acknowledging Ren, which has become something of a pattern in this system. “We don’t even have a security team.”

“If anything, that oversight encourages Lord Ren’s presence,” Hux says, unable to resist the taunt. He enjoys the slighted look from Sihnago and her staff a little too much; the foreign brush of amusement across his mind.

The assistants share a significant glance, but Sihnago recaptures the main attention with a short nod and a sweeping gesture toward a long hall behind a pair of rose-glass doors. “This way.”

Sihnago’s meeting room is nearly entirely window, the floor and walls blending into a rather off-putting glass that allows occupants to tower over most of Giyar. The method of discomfiting the competition is objectively admirable, but by the odd, slow method of step, even Ren doesn’t appreciate the illusion of flight. The next issue, a similar method of discomfiture, is the layout – three chairs on one side of the table at the door, a single one on the other with back to the glass. It makes very clear why Ren was meant to stay separate from the meeting.

Hux lifts his chin, stepping in past Sihnago’s guards with a short glance toward the city, _‘You’re not going to fight with me about the chair, are you?’_

_‘We both usually stand.’_

_‘In a very different place than this,’_ Hux responds, pulling the chair and sitting in nearly the same instant as Sihnago herself. He could stand, but it would make him look unconfident, uncomfortable – attempting to seem as if he has authority in a place he holds none.

“I read you’ve become embroiled in a diplomatic tryst with our young prince,” Sihnago says, a short smirk flashing across her face. She glances to her assistants, as if seeking support, then looks forward to raise a single brow at Hux. “An interesting match.”

Hux tilts his head in a similar nod back at Ren, inhaling slow, “Your peoples’ idea.”

“Not mine, I assure you,” Sihnago says, leaning back in her chair with a quick shake of her head. She abruptly holds out a hand, which seems to materialize a data pad in her palm, “Let us proceed with more serious matters – I’m sure you have other business as well.”

“Some,” Hux agrees, pulling his own data pad from his jacket. He can’t help but imagine for an instant having Ren cart his gear around, and in the same moment realizes how every ounce of tech would be spitefully destroyed.

A heavy, rumbling exhale has assistants and guards tensing, all eyes darting upwards to Ren except from Sihnago, who seems immune to the instincts of lesser creatures. She is showing herself to be much like the Sovereign, and probably has near as much power in this field.

“My organization is in want of port,” Hux says, glancing down and pulling up a mostly fabricated charter of intent on the surface of the data pad. He scrolls through it with a flick of his finger, as if looking at something, “A project has been started that makes Thvala’s location very strategic.”

Sihnago gives a slow quirk of her brow. “Strategic?”

“Yes,” Hux says, drawing teeth along his lip a bare moment and leaning forward, gesturing in the general direction of... well, everything, considering the sightline of this glass box. He’s not quite certain flattery is the way to proceed, but he has to start somewhere. “I’m sure you’re aware of Thvala’s status as an unofficial gateway between the Core and the Unknown Reaches. I’m equally sure you’re the one who helped make it that way in the years after the fall of the Empire.”

“General Hux,” Sihnago says, a narrow pinch of discomposure showing across her lips before smoothing back into an indifferent smile. She blinks at the table before looking up into Hux’s eyes, exhaling through her nose, “As flattering and… true as your words are, I must decline giving your ships passage through Thvala’s _gateway_.”

Hux feels his brow nearly furrow before he covers it with a blink. He tries to grab Ren’s attention, from wherever it may have wandered, and finds some pleasant surprise in an immediate response.

 _‘I cannot get a…’_ Ren sends something that is undeniably his version of a mental scoff, as defensive inward as it is aloud. _‘She must be from a very old family.’_

 _‘Wonderful,’_ Hux responds, lifting his chin at Sihnago and reluctantly waiting for explanation like some sort of plebian.

“We know of your organization’s activities, General,” Sihnago says, spreading her hands, rings glinting in the light when she shifts her shoulders to gesture at little more than idea. “Goals, bids for power, whatever your kind may call them. We don’t approve.”

“I see, how very narrow-minded,” Hux says, feeling a muscle jump high on his jaw. The look in her eyes is one he spent a few years too many seeing in the eyes of other potential allies, as if stating the obvious holds some manner of superiority above him.

Sihnago exhales slowly, folding her hands again as her eyes stay steady on Hux, “Whatever may happen between you and my government is inconsequential; I do not support the use of our hyperspace for such unseemly pursuits.”

The assistant on the left dips their head, a stiff, droidlike smile on their face. “It is our deepest apologies, General. We simply cannot in good conscious fit your shipments in.”

 _‘He’s lying,_ ’ Ren sends, the light of the room fluctuating as he shifts a few centimeters sideways on his feet. _‘But not… deliberately.’_

Hux tips his head, as if agreeing with the dimwitted assistant across the table, then sends a narrowed look backward at Ren. It is slowly becoming obvious that this murky, ineffectual explanation of any and all things is more a habit that should've been corrected years ago than a deliberate method to frustrate – the fact it irritates Hux must be some happy coincidence.

 _‘He doesn’t know, but she does,’_ Ren clarifies, his mental voice taking on an oddly chastened tone, though Hux isn’t particularly qualified to recognize it. _‘The routes may be manipulated by a more local syndicate. No room for more ships that might catch them.’_

 _‘A simple criminal?’_ Hux quirks a brow and takes a short breath, returning his attention forward, “Convenient.”

Sihnago and her assistants turn in an almost startling tandem, each blinking with bemusement at the non sequitur. It makes obvious how they all thought Hux had been lulled into some dejected state by their denial for service.

“Comptroller,” Hux says, exhaling slowly and affecting his mouth into a dissatisfied line, holding his expression firm as he glances between the two assistants on the other side of the table, then refocusing on Sihnago. “Why do you insist on rejecting lucrative traffic based on a moral fiber you do not actually possess?”

“I’m sorry?” Sihnago says, sitting up straighter in her chair with a short beat of panic widening her eyes. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Don’t you?” Hux says, raising a single brow and staring for a long moment, until he sees a twitch across her mouth. He leans back in his seat, folding his fingers together over the darkened surface of his data pad. “I see two options: firstly, I can offer you more money than your current financier, or secondly, I’ll simply find someone else who will take it.”

“How dare you accuse – “

“I misspoke,” Hux interrupts, holding up a hand and enjoying the look of pure fury that descends upon Sihnago’s face. He closes his thumb and a single finger, leaving the last three raised, “ _Thirdly_ , I could have my man forcibly change your mind. He’s quite good at it.”

Sihnago closes her mouth, visibly swallowing as her eyes dart toward Ren. The guards at the back shift on their feet, the last victims of a wave of unease that is obvious even without a convenient line into their heads.

Ren shifts at his back, though it seems less theatrically menacing than outright curious, _‘Your man?’_

 _‘A simplification,’_ Hux responds, ignoring the sudden flash of heat crawling under his ears. A misnomer, but there is only so many ways to… to introduce Ren without undermining his own authority.

~

The city of Giyar is a less truly urban environment than Oripha, with only a few towering skyscrapers dotting the center around a space elevator. The climate of the area is far more tropical as well, which the architect of the hotel has seen fit to remind with thinly-screened walkways and glass ceilings, making the entire hotel glow a soft, omnipresent mix of green and violet.

It is undoubtedly beautiful, and especially so to anyone who grew entirely to adulthood on a durasteel monolith in the cold of space, but Hux had forgotten any notions of picturesque horizons when the wheezing voice of a choking concierge regretfully delivered news that there had been an error in their booking. Admittedly, Ren had gone slightly overboard in his frustration, and Hux had perhaps been a little too encouraging of the behavior, but was it really too much to ask to end the day without risking a run-in with Gheralt?

Hux could be – well, he would still be working, but _Ren_ is practically itching for something and has been for at least three-quarters of an hour. Hux could just snap at Ren to keep his mind to himself, but he feels an odd curl of discomfort at the idea, and he isn’t sure enough that it’s not his own to rightly mention it. The mortification that could arise would be the very definition of personal.

 _‘Gheralt is approaching,’_ Ren sends, shifting abruptly up from his sprawl on the sofa, boots hitting the ground with a loud thump. He leans forward to set elbows on his knees, tilting his head toward Hux, _‘Do you have the daggers?’_

 _‘Stab him yourself,’_ Hux responds, continuing to type a thoroughly scathing message for Lt. Andewn and disregarding the sudden hyperawareness of the blades tucked against his spine.

_‘Gladly.’_

Hux sighs, lifting his eyes from the screen and rolling them to Ren. _‘Sarcasm.’_

The doors swing open just a few moments later, Gheralt stepping in behind the doorman with a pair of unfamiliar assistants at his back. A garment bag is held at a rather uncomfortable looking stiffness by the shorter assistant, just slightly above their head, and Hux stares at it with a similarly looming sense of dismay.

“Good evening, General,” Gheralt greets, bowing slightly in that falsely esteeming manner. He spares a narrow glance at Ren, then resumes a beaming smile at Hux. “I am so glad to have caught you before you retired to your rooms.”

Hux pockets his data pad on the inside of his jacket, forgoing a polite greeting and standing from his seat, putting a light hand on Ren’s shoulder as a signal to stay in his own. It’s obvious now that the hotel insisting they wait in this glorified parlor was hardly the stated registration error. “You’ve brought something.”

“Ah, yes, I had this commissioned the moment I woke,” Gheralt says, gesturing for his assistants to step forward with the garment bag. He makes an odd motion, firstly unrecognizable to Hux, but apparently a signal to the assistants to pull open a pair of zippers. “Attending a social event in day clothes is hardly appropriate for an individual of your status, so I took the liberty to find you something better.”

“I hardly have need for frill, Prince Gheralt,” Hux says, taking a slow breath and lifting a hand to anxiously trace a thumb along his own jaw – of all the senseless things he expected, this was not one. “I am only a military man.”

“Perhaps in your day to day, but here,” Gheralt pauses, gesturing toward the hotel and perhaps the entire city. “Well.”

Hux nods stiffly, trying to avoid looking any amount more interested in the outfit than he already might. It’s a blessedly simple, two-layered affair, and undeniably inspired by the Empire, if ignoring the pair of chains that circle along one shoulder to clasp at the collar with a silver pendant, which is far more reminiscent of what he's seen around Thvala. “I'm not certain it will fit.”

Gheralt shakes his head shortly, stepping further to the side so the outfit can be made even more the center of attention. “It was no issue, I assure you. We simply contacted your organization and the droids did the rest.”

Hux exhales in a slow breath, lips curling slightly over his teeth. He can understand why something so innocuous would be unclassified, but not why it would be given out – he's going to kill Mitaka, who probably assumed it was some sort of third-hand order. Apart from the security breach, simply taking into account the narrow time it was put together, adding on the supposed _custom_ measurements, then this costume is entirely too expensive for how needless it is, not to mention how inappropriate. As objectively flattering as the comparison is, he does not wear _white_.

A certain amusement shifts uncomfortably across Hux’s mind, undeniably foreign, yet doubly recognizable. He finds himself speaking aloud without quite thinking, a spiteful sneer threatening to form at the corner of his mouth. “What have you gotten Lord Ren to wear?”

Gheralt stares a long moment, then sharply inhales, “I’m sorry?”

“If I am going to be so richly garbed, then he must be as well,” Hux says, lifting his chin and glancing to his side with a significant tip of his head. He looks back to Gheralt, doing his best to affect something of a pleasant smile. “My organization can just as easily provide his measurements.”

 _‘I craft my own wardrobe,’_ Ren argues, slipping into Hux’s thoughts in with urgency and standing to his feet like it might halt the inevitable.

Hux hopes that he gives the mental version of a dismissive scoff. _‘I know, it’s awful.’_

_‘You don't have – ‘_

_‘I have millions of hours of security footage that could easily determine base measurements from a few frames,’_ Hux interrupts, resisting the strong urge to slide his eyes sideways with a glare. Gheralt is no Snoke, but it would still be rather unwise to give hint toward private conversations right in front of him. _‘But I think he’ll simply use the same file containing that mandatory fitting we **all** suffer at the beginning of every year.’_

Ren markedly shifts on his feet, thoughts taking on a slightly tighter slant. _‘That may be inaccurate.’_

 _‘Only if you’re hiding some remarkable change from the last day,’_ Hux snipes back, deliberately bringing forth a memory of Ren exposed and lain out on the bed like some heathen exhibitionist; he regrets it only a moment later, feeling heat spread under his collar.

Ren seems to find the memory equally awkward, at least, his bickering thoughts abruptly fading into little more than nothing.

“Would you… like to match?” Gheralt asks, drawing attention back with a few sharp words. He brings out the gaudy data pad, lips curling unflatteringly as he taps something in with marked vigor.

“No,” Ren answers, the actual sound of his modulated voice apparently shock enough that both of Gheralt’s assistants step backward on their heels. “Black. Silver. No white.”

“Of course, Lord Ren,” Gheralt says, barely looking up from the presumed rush order, tone just the barest amount agreeable. “The General has said how very _particular_ you can be.”

Ren responds with an audible exhale, quirking his head to the side in that vaguely eerie way he has to shift his stare to Hux. He doesn't complain in any pronounced manner, as he usually might, only sharing a vague sense of irritation that's clear enough without the Force nonsense.

Hux ignores the attention as play at ignorance, at least to the staring onlookers. “He’ll need a mask, obviously.”

Gheralt actually looks up, though it doesn’t seem to be from any particular worry. A short, almost sly, smile breaks across his lips. “I have many resources, General.”

‘ _Fool_ ,’ Ren thinks, the word brushing almost sullenly against the edges of Hux’s mind.

“If that is all,” Hux says, folding his hands behind his back and tilting his chin toward the door. “I would like to retire to my rooms – the day has been rather long.”

“Of course,” Gheralt says, nodding and sweeping to the side to allow access to the door. An assistant shoves the garment bag forward, toward a rather befuddled Ren, “Lord Ren’s attire will be here by tomorrow.”

“It will be perfectly fine if it isn’t,” Hux says, pausing in the doorway and glancing sideways at Gheralt, trying to make it seem as much an afterthought as possible. “I’ll simply wear the same as I did yesterday.”

The concierge, as expected at this point, is waiting for them near the lifts. They wear a fixed expression, mouth in a tight, narrowed line, but their eyes have a certain skittering quality that reminds Hux a little too much of Mitaka. “The passes on your data pads wi-will work at your room now, sirs. Your luggage has already been delivered.”

“Good,” Ren growls, dropping the garment bag straight at their feet as he passed.

The concierge inhales the moment the bag touches the ground and rushes down to scoop it up in their arms. Their breath turns momentarily frantic before being swallowed back up into decorum, a stern frown holding it in behind their teeth.

“The fact you maintained the ruse in the face of… such pressure is almost admirable,” Hux says, shaking his head slowly and looking down to directly address the concierge. “But very stupid.”

The concierge looks up briefly, shock clear in their eyes before they glance back down, voice little more than a hoarse mutter. “Yes, sir.”

“I advise taking the next lift,” Hux says, gesturing with an open hand and glancing from the corner of his eye, only to find himself staring with some confusion to find Ren holding the door open with a boot.

Odd.

The concierge carefully straightens out the bag, nodding again, “Yes, sir.”

Hux kicks at Ren’s foot as he steps into the lift, shoving it inward so the door can close as quickly as possible behind him. The lift faces the jungle, enormous trees and greenery turning small as it races to their rooms near the top of the complex. He hums, turning his back to the view and leaning against the railing, “You’re downright impatient, aren’t you?”

The reflection in the door shifts like water as Ren throws his hood from his helmet, exhaling hard; he flexes his hand in the space near his crown, then brushes over and tugs oddly at the hair out the back, “Tired.”

“Oh,” Hux intones, pushing off the lift wall as the hall opens out in front of them. He had been… Well, he’d been expecting something a little less pedestrian; certainly, less honest.

The room is just as opulent as the one in Oripha, a complementary service droid, plates of regional fruits, but rather than two rooms separated by a largely pointless arch, it does away with the illusion. Every section is blended together in a far more open layout, all below a canopy of large, hopefully faux, leaves; the bed itself is separated by little more than a thin partition of reedy plants near the foot.

A quiet knock draws attention back to the door, and behind it the nervy concierge. They hold out the garment bag with a distinct aire of pride, looking up to Hux with a tight-lipped smile.

“Thank you,” Hux says, reaching out and reluctantly taking the bag. “Do you – “

The door shuts abruptly, an aggravated, mechanical whir betraying the obvious third party forcing it closed. Hux rolls his eyes, hanging the garment bag on a convenient coat hook and turning around, picking up his bag from where the staff had carelessly stuck it on top of a settee.  

“No door to the other room,” Ren says, drifting near the single unwindowed wall that holds a room on the other side, putting a hand up and trailing his fingers along the trim.

“An oversight,” Hux agrees, looking down as he begins inspecting his bag; it’s definitely a blessing now, but that won’t excuse Andewn another reprimanding message.

Ren pauses at a pair of vines emerging out of the wall, tapping hard with two fingers at the plaster, “No way for Gheralt to come in.”

Hux shakes his head, folding into the couch with both data pads in hand. The way Ren treats doors, Gheralt will probably find it’s hardly an issue sometime in the next two days here.

“I’m going to bed down,” Ren announces, the dull clunk of his helmet loud as it hits the bedside table. “Now.”

Hux glances upward in surprise, blinking a few times and feeling caught as he watches Ren strip himself out of loose robes, reduced to the odd under armor beneath it. He wants to look down when that gets rucked up, but finds himself fixated as that slip of skin grow into a swath, “Ah.”

Ren stretches his shoulders once the lot of it is on the floor, running both hands through his hair a few times and shaking it out, “Working?”

“I’m sorry?” Hux says, inhaling slowly and shifting his shoulders back. He tries to ignore the curling heat at the back of his neck, inspired by little more than… far-too-close quarters.

“You. Are. Working?” Ren says, finishing his bratty tirade with a scoff and flicking the coverlet with a completely needless use of Force.

“…Yes,” Hux mutters, managing to force his eyes down. He lifts a hand, dragging his fingers along a completely random line of text, “For a few hours yet.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve decided to go through with it,” Hux says, buttoning his cuffs with a spare glance downward. He tuts under his breath, eyes narrowing, “I don’t know what I was thinking – I mean, look at yourself.”

“I’ve decided to go through with it,” Hux says, buttoning his cuffs with a spare glance downward. He tuts under his breath, eyes narrowing, “I don’t know what I was thinking – I mean, look at _yourself_.”

Hux indeed stares back at… himself, then tries and fails to fulfill the order, unable to tilt his chin down even a single millimeter. He has had out of body dreams like this before, but never the sort where he’s actually _speaking_ to himself, and certainly not with such disdain. It’s rather disturbing.

The doppelgänger hums low, standing at a near parade-rest and folding hands at its back. A smirk folds at its mouth conflictingly to the posture, “I’ll have to get rid of you.”

Hux tries to blink when a sudden well of sorrow builds up behind his tongue, and feels himself swallow it back as it grows into an overwhelming sense of melancholy. He unwillingly flexes a hand at his side, shoulders falling, eyes dropping to doppelgänger’s booted feet before trailing back up.

“Sir,” a timorous voice rings out, and Mitaka is standing innocuously in a doorway. He gestures at his back, moving to the side, “Your fiancé is here.”

“Oh wonderful,” the doppelgänger cheers, a manic sort of smile crossing its face as it opens its arms wide to an arriving… an arriving _Gheralt_ , dressed in a black and red costume that practically makes a mockery of the First Order.

“My dear,” Gheralt says, leaning up to press a soft kiss to the doppelgänger’s cheek, eyes sliding sideways with smug victory toward Hux.

Hux gawks back for a moment, incredulous, then tries harder to wrestle the dream under his control. He imagines everything he can, from changing the farce of this _Finalizer_ office to the hotel in Giyar, to a destructive pair of panthac devouring the doppelgänger, to Ren in the ridiculous dancer costume. It would certainly be more flattering on him, if only it worked – Gheralt hardly has the upper mass to make something that sheer look enticing.

He suffers a rising sense of dismay as he watches his own arm curl over Gheralt, an unnatural smile upon the doppelgänger’s lips that disappears as it leans down and affixes to Gheralt’s puckering pair. The display is barely indecent, almost chaste, but that hardly lessens the resulting disgust.

Hux tries to move again, but his feet remain cemented to the ground, forcing him to watch the doppelgänger moan quietly into Gheralt’s panting mouth as it all suddenly becomes more licentious. The dismayed feeling from earlier is back, and it's the only warning he gets before he suddenly turns and aims for a far hall; the harsh, angular arch of a door has never looked this welcoming, so naturally it closes with a discordant bang before he even reaches it.

He wants to reach out and force it open, blow hole into it, anything – instead, he turns around again to watch the doppelgänger press Gheralt to a sofa not unlike the one in the Corellian shuttle. They’re half naked now, and the only consolation is the doppelgänger looks a bit… off, to Hux’s eyes, more lithe and pale than reality, absent the awful scar across three ribs.

“You're stunning,” the doppelgänger whispers, voice far too audible for the distance. It runs a hand through Gheralt’s hair, beads chiming like bells as they meet against each other. “Absolutely radiant.”

Gheralt answers with an impossibly pitchy cackle, his hand brazen against the doppelgänger’s skin as he slides it down to curl around a thin waist. “Of course I am.”

“Not like that useless beast, always lurking about,” the doppelgänger says, voice pitching bitter as it looks over a shoulder, sending a sneering look at Hux. It seems to crouch lower over Gheralt, acting protective even while spewing nonsensical insults.

“He’ll be off your ship soon,” Gheralt coos, turning the doppelgänger’s chin back with a pair of fingers, leaning in for another too tender kiss. “You'll never see him again.”

Hux feels himself swallow, pain sinking deep in his chest, and the shining floor itself seems to rise against his vision. The reflection is warped and vague, almost a mirage, but something –

The doppelgänger’s amused hum interrupts the thought, a sound that seems to weigh and drift the air like smoke, curling around Hux’s ears in a twisted imitation of his own malice. “Isn’t that what you wanted, darling?”

The sudden descent of dark is shocking and relieving in equal measure, and Hux comes to feeling his chest heaving as if every breath is being driven out of him. It _was_ just a dream, an awful one, and while not quite full of horror, certainly a nightmare all the same.

He ignores the heavy-lidded allure of falling back to sleep, images reappearing as if burned into his mind every time he closes his eyes, and stares at the length of his forearm, absently clenching his hand a few times and trying to gather himself. He belatedly realizes how close he’s pressed up to Ren’s curled away back, bare skin entirely too warm with sleep, and shifts away with a quick rollover as he folds both arms into his chest.

His heart starts up again, as foolish as it is, when an exhale pierces the relative quiet of the room. He stares hard at the gently shifting shadow of the artificial jungle, enhanced by the rising sun, and feels a conspicuous shift along the mattress that ends with a thump along the floor of the other side.

The silence stretches, and stretches, and Hux finally gives into a curious, nagging urge and rolls on his back, turning his head to the now-vacated side of the bed. He begins to wonder if this is simply another dream as his eyes drag across the empty side of the room, one where he is _blessedly_ alone, and startles when a large hand appears and drags a pillow from between the sheets.

He stares at the empty spot, blinking slow, and lets out a long breath. An echo follows from the floor, then a scant, suspicious gust of gentle air that crawls along the edges of his skull just above his ears. He closes his eyes for a long moment, then awkwardly shifts his arm up to grab at the second pillow from that side, lobbing it down to the floor.  

He regrets it the moment he hears a quiet, unmistakable inhale of shock, the noise somehow making it more real. He wonders for the umpteenth time lately if he’s contracted some infection from this damned planet, eating away at his brain at every available moment – he certainly seems to be mentally regressing, the deterioration rate increasing significantly between yesterday and now.

A shuffle, then a dark shadow rises against to the pale green walls, and Ren is blearily staring at him from an awkward lean on the floor. His dark hair is half obscuring his face, curls arching across an eye, while the more visible is narrowed in obvious disbelief.

“Hux?” he says, voice little more than a croak.

Hux stares back at him for a long moment, then swallows thickly, attempting to clear his throat. “Gheralt mentioned he kissed you.”

Ren seems instantly diverted, eyes sharpening with anger and lips curling into a revolted sneer. “What?”

“Said it was in the dark eaves because you wouldn’t leave them,” Hux says, fabricating only slightly, leaning up on an elbow and curling his knuckles under his chin for leverage. He watches the twitch of brows, tightening of lips on Ren’s still-sleepy face, and nearly feels a grin stretch on his own face until he smothers it.

Ren shakes his head, exhaling hard through his nose, “He is _lying_.”

“He was quite convincing,” Hux teases, craning his neck just slightly to look backward at the jungle. The real forest is a good distance below, and the visible traffic weaves through the thick branches with a certain automated ease. “You did say you couldn’t recall him.”

“I would remember that.”  

Hux hums absently under his breath, catching sight of a particularly brave, bright speeder racing along the trunk of a tree. It twists and suddenly stops, then pulls back out into conventional traffic far below. “Perhaps he simply got forgotten amongst the other suitors.”

“Are you mocking me?” Ren says, voice dropping abruptly into an outright growl.

Hux looks back from the window, taken aback at the patent temper near glowing from Ren’s eyes. “Not… right now. No.”

Ren stares hard for almost a minute longer, pulling himself upright and standing, jaw ticking, without a pause to look away, “It didn’t happen.”

“As you say,” Hux murmurs, drawing himself up and leaning his back against the window, trying to reduce that twinge of smallness he feels at being leaned over. He hadn’t believed Ren to have actually engaged in anything more than irritation with Gheralt, but he also hadn’t predicted this sort of reaction to the idea.   

Largely, because he hadn’t planned to bring it up – small oversight, really, not predicting his own panicked, barely awake conscious.

“I can’t believe…” Ren trails off, turning around and running both hands through his hair, shaking his head. His fingers abruptly clutch white-knuckled between the dark strands, breath heaving, “I left this.”

“What?” Hux says, sparing a quick look at the shifting muscle before becoming determined to look up. He thinks he might hear something whir unhappily a few meters away, and watches Ren drop his shoulders, turning for the refresher, “Ren, _what_?”

“All of it,” Ren growls, a short swing of his arm punctuating the statement before he’s Forcefully slamming the refresher door behind him.

Hux stares at the closed door for a baffled moment, then shifts higher up again on the bed, rubbing hard across his mouth and settling the fingers of a closed fist against his lips. He lets his eyes drift across the room, “Well.”

~

A quiet bell rings unobtrusively around the room, pausing a lull of time just long enough for Hux to finish zipping up his boots before repeating at note that seems louder, but probably isn’t – he still glares at the tiny dot of a speaker as he passes it. He stops in front of the closed door before moving to open it, taking time to exhale slowly and fold his expression into something less like a convict in front of a firing squad.

“Concierge,” Ren says, voice barely a mumble from where he sits, planted in front of a holoscreen. He’s barely talked for the past three hours, sinking into a quiet sulk, which two weeks ago would be situation normal, but is now a certain measure more dispiriting.

“Ah,” Hux says, glancing backward for a long moment, then lifting his hand at the door lock with only slightly less tension knotting up his shoulders.

The concierge stands there as promised, a bright, only slightly fabricated smile upon their face, and holding up a remarkably similar garment bag to the one currently on the hook. The complimentary service droid springs to life in the next instant, rolling to the door and reaching up for the bag, which the concierge respectfully lays out on its waiting arms.

“Hello, sir,” the concierge greets, slipping a hand inside their lapel and pulling back a card. They hold it out, presenting a gold-leaf logo spelling out Asuran with ‘Kylo Rin’ in halting script written underneath. “The delivery is for your companion.”

“I see,” Hux says, taking the card and throwing it down on top of the garment bag. He gestures sideways with a flick of his fingers when the droid hoots at him, urging it to take the bundle back toward the bed rather than Ren.

“I also have a message,” the concierge says, speaking quickly before the door can close in front of their nose. “His Highness’ event will be held in our ballroom on the sixth floor, and begin officially at dusk.”

Hux resists an immature urge to tell the concierge to take back another, less helpful message, and instead nods shortly, exhaling, “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, sir,” the concierge says, giving a short bow and taking a step back, prompting the door to pleasantly slide closed.

Hux turns slightly and reaches up, grabbing the other garment bag still on the hook. He slides the zipper down a few centimeters, confirming yesterday evening hadn’t simply been some absurd delusion, and exhales slowly as he folds the entire bag over his arm. He had been planning to simply ignore the request and wear the same clothes he’s got on now, which would have demonstrated that he can’t be plied with expensive gifts, nor bribed away from his partner, but… Gheralt _actually_ bought the clothing for Ren.

It’s strangely magnanimous, which can only mean an awful humiliation lies folded neatly inside that other garment bag, and Hux is much too petty to let _that_ opportunity pass. His integrity can certainly survive a blow if it involves cutting down Ren.

A quiet scoff comes from the other side of the room, “ _No_.”

Hux shifts on his heels, impulsively feeling out his mind for any familiar disquiet. His senses amount to nothing, and while he can never be sure Ren hasn’t snuck in, it seems unlikely he would reveal that hand now. “I’m not even thinking about you.”

“Your malice is not subtle,” Ren says, looking ever the petulant brat as he glares over arms crossed around knees.

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Hux says, deliberately walking in front of the sofa rather than behind, blocking the screen for a short moment only to sneer back, “I’d hardly call it _malice_.”

“You wouldn’t,” Ren mutters, gaze following the rest of Hux’s steps before he rolls his eyes back to the holo-screen. “Spite, then.”

Hux drops the garment bag on the bed next to its twin, taking a moment to weigh the word in his mind. “Better.”

He bends down and unzips the new bag, splitting it open and raising an eyebrow at the outfit inside. It is disappointingly innocuous, black and layered, and the only standout is a shiny carnival-like mask hooked to the inside. He hums low, unclipping the mask and lifting it with no little curiosity at the design: it has a _veil_ to cover the lower part of the face.

“What is that?”

Hux barely spares a glance upward as he shrugs, casting the mask to the side and leaning down to free the rest of the clothing, “Yours.”

“No, it isn’t,” Ren says, voice lowering in what seems to be equal parts disbelief and petulance.

“It assuredly is,” Hux says, “Your name is on the card. Mostly.”

The room is quiet for the next few moments, giving Hux time to pull the rest of it from the bag for a better look. It is black, almost oppressively so, but offset dramatically by a gauzier, if still black, outer layer that falls to the ground, softly reflecting light with every insignificant movement. Consequently, the loose trousers blend near imperceptibly underneath and up into the many folds of the waist and thin top, making it look like a single robe under the almost shimmering overlay.

A low thud is the little warning Hux gets before Ren appears at his side, judging the garment for himself. He sighs slowly, shifting on his feet, and doesn't seem to know what to say – something they can agree on.

“A layer is missing,” Ren mutters, tugging at the edge of the robe, sticking his hand through the wide shoulder that counts itself a sleeve and coming easily out the other side of the plunging neckline. “Where is the rest?”

“Ah…” Hux intones, raising a brow and glancing down at the empty garment bag, then shrugging with a single shoulder. “It _is_ a jungle.”

“It looks like the designer only strung a few yards together,” Ren says, taking a step back with a grimace settling hard across his lips. 

“You’ll fill it out, I think,” Hux says, glancing surreptitiously sideways and trying to gauge the success of that particular praise. He has to get Ren to wear this – needs this minor victory of forcing a large, angry man into an utterly ridiculous getup.

The only concern is he has hardly ever complimented Ren, let alone on appearances, so is upwards of eighty percent sure he’ll be caught out. He’s not exactly lying, but… It’s not something he would _say_.

“What?” Ren says, his voice dropping into heavy tone. His eyes dart up Hux and down to the robes, mouth twisting further in some apparent thought when he again draws his gaze up, “You do?”

“Gheralt must have thought so,” Hux says, words only a slight rush as something rabbit-y jumps into motion under his ribs. He exhales shortly in the next moment, clearing his throat, “He was hardly subtle when he barged in a few mornings ago.”

Ren keeps staring in that awful piercing way he has for another few moments, then slowly lowers his eyes. “Oh.”

“It’s similar to your normal clothing,” Hux continues, dropping the robes down to the bed and making them wrinkle unevenly against the garment bag. His palms feel tight, flashing with heat, and he digs his nails in until he’s distracted by the sharp sting; he refuses to look too closely at the source.

“Some,” Ren says, and reaches out again to draw his fingers down underneath the gauzy fabric overlay, “If half was shorn off. Replaced with… this.”

Hux tips his head, playing at disinterest and grabbing the other garment bag, the one containing his _costume_. He drags it further down the bed, shedding the bag as he goes, and straightens the cloak out with a grimace. It was a minor fantasy of his younger self, to be praised and promoted so highly for his cleverness, but now all he sees is something inspired by a few of the leading failures of Imperial reign.

“I won’t wear this mask.”

“Alright,” Hux says, huffing under his breath and laying the cloak flat on the bed, freeing the rest of the outfit from its many hangers and clips. The bag has kept it almost perfectly starched from the tailor, complete with enviously neat lines down the trousers. “Confirm all those delightful conspiracies, your highness.”

“It wasn’t made for those with _sight_ ,” Ren says, throwing the mask up at Hux with enough spin that it might conceivable behead him back if it weren’t stopped just in front of his neck.

Hux straightens and snatches the mask from the air, biting hard at the inside of his lip to silence a burst of indignation that rises against this tongue. He takes a deep breath, and absently turns the mask over in his hands, “Compensate with the Force.”

Ren narrows his eyes into a glare, “You’re not serious.”

“You've sparred with a blindfold, surely,” Hux says, sliding his thumbs along the edges of the ornate eyepiece. It is very detailed, whorls of metallic smoke curling in a mesmerizing pattern from the outside inward; a fair imitation of eyeholes until one looks much, much closer. “Even I have.”

“Combat is different,” Ren says, glancing down at the mask in Hux’s hands, pressing his lips into a hard line.

“Are you saying something so simple is beyond your capabilities?” Hux asks, lowering his voice with mildly exaggerated disdain. He drops the mask back to the bed, lifting a brow as he crosses his arms, leaning back on his heels, “I wasn’t aware your Force held such _limitations_ , Lord Ren.”

Ren breathes silently for a few long moments, scowl deepening, then exhales hard, “Fine.”

~

Hux eyes the time before the event for as long as conceivably possible, distracting himself with a minor crisis on a planet some light years away between a pair of panicky engineers and a moronic officer who doesn’t understand the definition of ‘soft’ in soft deadline. He almost gives into a decision not to appear at all, but that would be juvenile, not to mention Ren would be a veritable and smug witness to the choice.

He sighs with no little resignation as he stands, locking the unnetworked datapad away and sliding it into his bag as he passes, then standing in front of the lain out outfit with a hard pinch of his lips. Ren’s is on the other side, half crumpled over the edge of the mattress, but the mask is nowhere to be seen; if it’s been cast out the high balcony, Hux is going to be entirely unamused.

“You’re actually going to wear that?” Ren says, looking up from the sofa, less sulking now and more neutrally invested in awful holonovelas. Ah, the mask is next to him.

“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have said anything about yours,” Hux says, throwing the kit over his arm and walking toward the refresher. He grabs the pair of sheathes from the bedside as he goes, adding those to the pile, “Obviously.”

The resolve to not go downstairs only grows when Hux finishes dressing and gets the cloak around his shoulders, staring at himself in the mirror as he attempts to fix his hair without looking below his own chin. The outfit was tailored without taking into account any sort of _other_ alteration, so it fits him far too well around the shoulders and chest, making him look like some too-tall waif in white. It’s almost a surprise that he can’t see the daggers protruding from his back.

Admittedly, the color adeptly manages to emphasis the tint of his hair; though, that could be unwelcome in certain company. He’d certainly feel especially singular if he wore this anywhere near First Order proper.

He takes a short breath, then prompts the refresher doors to open, only to nearly step backward again at the sight of Ren on the other side. Hux had thought _he_ looked odd and out of place, yet Ren looks even less like himself.

A significant element of Ren’s façade of mystique is being theoretically monstrous and almost literally untouchable. The outfit Gheralt sent up completely does away with that, leaving Ren’s pallid skin exposed along his arms, not to mention a long, wide stretch from his collarbone down to his naval. His visible chest is… impressive, especially when how the muscle pulls from his sternum is framed so blatantly.

Hux swallows, ignoring an entirely improper flush under his own clothing, and forces his eyes up, “Fit?”

He’s not quite certain if he is commenting on the clothing or Ren.

“Yes,” Ren says, reaching up and plucking at the flowing drapery that curls over his nape like an unbuttoned shirt front. It looks like it _should_ have some sort of belt, any sort, but only gets tucked loosely in a multilayered waist, blending down into the illusion of a robe. “I think.”

“I must admit, I thought it would be more…” Hux trails off, uncertain how to describe the sudden muddle in the back of his mind, and determinedly invents something else to deflect what might come off as a slight, or worse, against Ren’s figure. He pulls at his own cloak, “Well, this.”

“You are much more austere,” Ren says, eyes dragging down Hux, an odd frown twitching at the corner of his mouth. He exhales hard in the next moment, abruptly looking down as he shoves the mask onto his face, tying it at the back with a quick twist of his hands.

“Completely black?” Hux asks, slightly distracted by the manner Ren’s dark hair falls over the edges of the binding ribbon until it completely blends into his curls.

“Yes,” Ren says, lifting a hand and sliding his fingers around the rounded edges of the metal blindfold, then further down along the veil. “It’s thoroughly... It’s not… I can _feel_ through it, Hux.”

“It’s clearly not durasteel, if that’s your meaning,” Hux says, raising an eyebrow and watching Ren continue to feel across his own face as if it’s foreign to him. He’s long theorized that Ren enters some odd mind-space when he puts on the mask, and this is near proof of it.

“I can feel through it,” Ren repeats, voice little more than a murmur. He drops his hand suddenly, curling it at his side and gesturing with the other toward the door, his movements stiff like a droid, “We should go.”

Hux pinches his lips together and peeks down at his data pad, giving a reluctant sigh. “As it allegedly started more than an hour ago, yes.”

Ren tilts his head, shoulders falling, which is a familiar enough sight – the visible quiver of muscle is not, “An hour.”

“I’m sure Gheralt is waiting with baited breath,” Hux mutters sarcastically, determinedly looking away and walking toward the door, sliding his datapad back into place. He pauses once they exit the room, standing in the silent, empty hall, “Do you need a guide, then?”

“No,” Ren says, inhaling with what might be concentration, then clearly causing the sudden, tangible prickle that seems to sink into every pore of Hux’s skin.

Hux flinches back at the sensation, tightening his jaw, “What is that?”

“Seeing,” Ren answers, exhaling slow and remaining utterly vague until he takes a few steps forward, stopping in front of the lift and turning on his heels with ease.

Hux rolls his eyes, reaching back to make certain the door has closed completely behind them before joining Ren at the lifts. He doesn’t need anyone taking this opportunity to sneak in, though it would create an unintentional pattern to tie back to the act in Oripha.

“Are you going to do that the entire time we’re down there?” Hux asks, glancing upward at the rapidly descending floor numbers with a new sense of reluctance. He’s fairly certain the unsubtle method will attract more than a little attention, especially if it’s done often enough.

“No,” Ren says, practically scoffing, like the mere question of if he’d like to _see_ is stupid. “It would be too exhaustive. I can sense life forms easily, but not details. I should only need to do it once.”

“What about serving trays, or standout clothing? A cane or two could also be trouble,” Hux says, resisting an urge to being a countdown on his fingers. It would be immature, not to mention pointless with the target unable to see. “Droids.”

“I won’t move more than necessary,” Ren amends, voice lowering into an exasperated murmur, punctuating the statement with a low, petulant huff.

“See that you don’t,” Hux says, leaning forward only slightly on the balls of his feet, feeling the lift slow for a moment at a level far above six, then abruptly speed up again. “I hardly need someone’s limbs twisted off for bumping into you.”

“I brought my saber,” Ren says, a certain tone in his voice that might be amusement if one were to guess it.

“Of course you did,” Hux says, rolling his eyes and ignoring the hypocritical weight of the daggers on his own back. He doesn’t have the ability to stop someone with a thought, though; it makes his weapons far more needful.

“I do feel…” Ren pauses, the doors opening on the lifts seeming to frighten his voice into intangibility. ‘ _Unprotected.’_

_‘The only one looking to smack you here is me,’_ Hux responds, wondering if the hand he’s let fall on Ren’s arm is a little too showy. It certainly feels it, but doesn’t seem to have been noticed – despite the display upstairs, he’s still not sure about letting Ren loose into this blind.

The entry is a mess of mingling aristocrats and business representatives, a few servers winding between guests, and it makes it easy enough to slip in without acknowledging anyone who attempts some form of eye contact. Hux is recognizable enough without his customary black uniform, his hair a relative rarity, and he doesn’t feel like having to respond to the inevitable questions about Ren – or to be precise, the lack of Ren. It would be amusing for about twelve seconds, but then it would just get downright irritating.

Gheralt is obvious right away in a set of shimmering robes near the center of the event proper, but almost more so by his utterly unsubtle staring. Hux spares an affected smile and a reluctant nod, only to realize that most of the attention seems to be on Ren – or more precisely, the middle of his very obvious chest. It’s an unexpected reaction, because he had to have known _what_ he sent and how much it would expose, though perhaps not that it would look so flattering.

_‘They’re **all** staring,_ ’ Ren thinks, the muscle of his forearm tightening as his hands clench at his sides, ‘ _I can feel their attention against my skin.’_

_‘You should wear this all the time,’_ Hux disagrees, humming under his breath and taking time to glances sideways, finding himself caught on the visible jut of Ren’s nose before he can manage to pull his eyes away and back to the center of the room _. ‘Makes you more approachable._ ’

Ren breathes a few long moments, then tilts his head away, as if looking across the violet jungle. “Ass.”

“At least you’re not in some twisted idea of full dress.”

“If you’d bought it yourself – ”

“I wouldn’t buy _this_ ,” Hux snaps, drawing back a step just to gesture down at his front with a sneer. He glances backward momentarily with a short lift of his chin, staring sideways across the mingling crowd and hoping his movement reads properly, “It’s unlikely I could have even _earned_ it had the Empire lasted – most of these sycophants are already more qualified than me. It's doubtlessly why they see it anything more than gauche to design and wear something so tasteless.”

Ren is silent for a long moment, then shrugs heavily, “You’re a fair hand at acting a sycophant.”

“Yes, yes,” Hux says, suddenly feeling oddly amiable despite the insult, and assuming it has a lot to do with actually _hearing_ that droll tone from Ren’s voice. He exhales slowly, watching a group burst into laughter at the far end of the room, “But one does still need to get within range of the target.”

“I would be,” Ren says, standing straighter in the next moment, an odd note entering his voice with a particular urgency. “I could have gotten you in the room.”

“Ren, it’s a _thought_ exercise,” Hux says, unsure how to respond to this sudden, unfamiliar eagerness. He's certain enough an awkward laugh isn't it, and waits impatiently for the urge to pass. “And I’m not certain you’d even exist had the Empire not fallen.”

“I - I know,” Ren mutters, now visibly hesitant, his sightless gaze falling slightly to the ground with a tilt of his head. “I meant. I would offer that opportunity.”

Hux has a rather uncomfortable notion he’s meant to understand some inference, and slowly raises an eyebrow. “Alright, Ren.”

Ren shifts forward on his feet, his relative voice entering Hux's mind with little warning, though it still seems in some part abashed. _‘Gheralt is looking again. His surprises has faded.’_

_‘Shame,’_ Hux responds, glancing quickly sideways with a short shift of his shoulders. He'd have to agree; the blindsided look from Gheralt has certainly faded back to the usual vapid cheer.

_‘Is your tactic going to be the same?’_ Ren asks, his hesitance seeming now to pile with an unfamiliar sensation, some emotion Ren has yet to conveniently send with clumsy definition. _‘To deter him.’_

_‘I'm surprised you'd ask,’_ Hux responds, barely managing to keep the bitter sarcasm off his face. He wonders if this is some roundabout way of warning off the offending method; though, if it is, then it’s an uncharacteristically subtle approach. _‘I gathered that move wasn't appreciated.’_

Ren is unresponsive for a long moment, then takes an oddly long, very audible breath. _‘No, it was… a sensible feint.’_

Hux raises an eyebrow at the middle distance, genuinely surprised at the admission, ‘ _Well, at any rate, it hardly worked.”_

_‘It’s not meant to work at anything,’_ Ren argues, his thoughts suddenly piercing, with every next word dragging quick across Hux’s mind in a sort of urgency. _‘Not to him. He might think it odd if we didn't.’_

Hux grimaces at the baseless sensation and glares sideways, only to start when a hand unexpectedly appears at the small of his back, settling heavily between the daggers. He determinedly shelves the rest of his bewilderment, and exhales carefully as he pretends to look across the room. _‘Alright. Valid.’_

_‘To him it’s… It’s a habit,’_ Ren continues, and with peculiar resolve, as though he still has to convince despite already garnering agreement. _‘Seeing me off. He likely assumes you’re affectionate.’_

Hux disregards the continuing litany, shifting inward to stand practically plastered to Ren’s side, ignoring a nervous spike against his throat. He attempts to turn his focus to the middle of the room, where Gheralt seems to be saying farewells to his present company – if judging by the slight step backward, the lifting hand attempting to politely wave off.

“At attention,” Hux says aloud, keeping his voice low and turning back to Ren, looking at the eyepiece as if he might make contact. He forces a small smirk on his face, trying to look wry, “He’s walking towards us.”

_‘I know,’_ Ren responds, seeming somehow both petulant and tentative at once. 

“I was giving you warning,” Hux says, lifting a hand for leverage in the same moment he leans inward, curling his fingers against Ren’s wide chest and closing his eyes.

A glaring miscalculation is promptly clear in the next instant, the definite shape of Ren’s lips a shock through the thin fabric, warm and firm, and enough of a distraction that it takes Hux a moment to remember the act is supposed to be absentminded, short, not something new that urges him to press forward in curiosity. It’s decidedly nothing like the helmet, and Hux has an urge to open his mouth just as the barest brush of foreign fingers curls against his cheek. He hurriedly shifts back, wrestling with his dignity and trying to regain any sense of balance.

The offending veil looks only mildly crumpled, smoothing all too-quickly from Ren’s lips and returning to smooth drapery. Hux is certain he can see a faint spot of dampness, but is just as sure it’s all his imagination, just like the fingers against his skin must have been for all they're evidenced.  

‘ _It actually worked,’_ Ren thinks, though the words nearly get lost among the chaos of shifting emotion behind them, most of all disbelief, until it all abruptly disappears like a stopped holo. He moves a step back, then another, hands falling to his sides and clenching into intermittent fists, “Gheralt is discouraged. I can feel it.”

“Finally,” Hux says, slowly inhaling a short breath and taking his own steps to the side, contradicting an insane compulsion to lean back into Ren. He looks down when something pulls and realizes his hand is nervously gripped at the loose fabric of his cloak, and forces it to unclench before it can cramp and seize up – he hardly has time for that right now. “Aren’t you going to storm off again?”

“Not storm,” Ren says, tipping his head and inhaling at length, then turning his sightless gaze toward some other side of the room. “But I will go. To keep with the act.”

Hux takes a short breath, then quickly bites back the words that nearly made escape from within his mind. He hadn’t meant Ren must leave, but… it’s a fair point. He doesn’t need to bring it up, and Ren has apparently seen fit to leave his mind, so he shrugs in a manner he hopes is dismissive enough.

He blinks at the prickle across his skin, glancing sideways to make sure no one else has noticed, then looks back forward, pinching his mouth at the sight of a now empty space. He turns on his heel when a waiter passes, resisting an instinct to look around like a fool, and acts as if he’s contemplating a drink before waving them off to easier glance across the crowd. Gheralt is nowhere to be found as well, but the victory doesn’t feel worth this consequential tight, uncomfortable wrench growing in his chest.

He suddenly wants nothing more than to rewind the last few minutes of time and rewrite history at the instant before he agreed to Ren’s stupid suggestion. He feels like loose strings have been left hanging around his wrists, waiting to be led to some explanation for this mounting discontent. He doesn’t feel another telltale prickle, nor even a mild nudge within his mind, which means its rather likely Ren has settled elsewhere with little continuing thought to him.

In following habits, it will likely end as it had two days ago – leaving the room, then finding Ren walking in behind him as he steps into the lift.

Still, Hux continues to drag his eyes across the crowd, feeling unmoored, and inhales in surprise when his eyes catch on a suitable distraction: a mildly familiar face peeking between the sea of gossipers and aristocrats. He starts forward, eagerly shoving aside the lingering bleakness and replacing it with a much more healthy suspicion. Belloc has no reason to be here, in this city halfway across the planet from his supposed residence, and the way he’s currently moving through the crowd on his way to Hux is downright suspicious.

“Hello, General,” Belloc greets, drawing up only a meter from Hux with a bright smile. A nervous tic in the form of a clutching hand at his side belays what might be his honest mindset, “I was hoping I might see you again.”

Hux raises a hand in response, forcing his mouth to stretch into a more welcoming expression. “Then it is an auspicious night for you.”

If Belloc _is_ an enemy agent, then Hux needs to get him out of the ballroom, isolate him, and there is no easier path to that than tricking him into some ego-inflating lie. He could take him to the room, purportedly sound-proofed, but that scheme seems immediately unwise; the chance of any planted surveillance is too great. He’ll have to figure it out when he gets to the lifts, which is rather frustrating.

“I’m surprised to see you at all,” Hux says, humming shortly when he realizes the silence has fallen a little too long. “We’re hardly near Oripha.”

“Oh, no,” Belloc agrees, glancing away nervously and giving a slightly weaker smile. “No, I’ve been tasked to attend these events for my employers. Political reasons.”

“I see,” Hux says, shifting forward from his place and deliberately brushing his arm across Belloc’s shoulder, leaving it there as he flags down a drink server. He turns as he plucks a pair of flutes from the tray, handing one off to Belloc, “I’ve forgotten; who did you say you worked for again?”

Belloc actually stares at the glass, blinking a few times before looking back up with a short inhale, “The Oripha Council of… of Elders.”

“Right, of course,” Hux nods, lifting up his glass and taking a slow sip, reluctantly letting the alcohol linger on the back of his tongue. He needs to seem contemplative, even interested, especially now Belloc has officially failed to remember his cover, but the cost may prove to high if he has to finish this unexpectedly saccharine wine. “Your position must be highly sought after to allow such daytrips to the other side of your planet.’

Belloc gives an odd laugh low in his throat, pressing his lips together just as he slowly nods. “It’s a… definite benefit.”

“I can hardly empathize,” Hux says, taking another drink and narrowing his eyes across the rim of his glass, giving a short smirk. “My people don’t live on _planets,_ you understand.”

Belloc stares back for a moment, then clears his throat, glancing away with a gesture of his chin in the direction Hux had come; a clear attempt to deflect. “Your guard is making a statement, isn’t he?”

Hux ignores a reflex to glance sideways, instead raising his brows, “I’m sorry?”

“His clothing,” Belloc clarifies, gesturing down his own, far more reserved, shirtfront. He looks more like one of the servers than a guest at this mockery of a party, which is certainly another few points down for his cover.

“Ah,” Hux intones, tipping his head to the side and affectedly pulling at his cloak, the trio of chains twinkling against each other against his arm. “I must admit both our costumes were commissioned by your Prince.”

Belloc doesn’t seem to understand for a moment, eyes darting down and back up, culminating in an overlong inhale, “So you don’t know… what he’s wearing, then.”

“No,” Hux says, dropping his glass down to his side. He forces a brief smile to cross his lips, and hopes it’s not too odd to continue making this vague attempt at seduction while talking about his fiancé. “But I am now quite intrigued.”

A long silence proceeds an awkward smacking of lips, and Belloc takes a long breath, clearly reluctant to divulge. “Some years ago, it was… custom to remove the eyes of a certain caste. The members wore very similar clothing to what your guard is wearing.”

“The caste of who?” Hux asks, baffled as to what _group_ would possible need to remove their eyes while wearing such clothing; it seems counter productive, but perhaps it was some manner of monk.

Belloc tips his head down, eyes darting obviously around the room and hardly subtle in his caution of any particularly temperamental eavesdroppers. “…Sex workers. Nobles didn’t want them to be able to identify their patrons. Doubly so.”

Hux blinks, leaning back and nodding slowly, pressing his lips into a thin line before forcing his expression to relax from something that abruptly feels near laughter. The insult is low-hanging to be sure, and apparently not too subtle, which means Gheralt may have assumed that Ren wouldn’t wear it to begin with – _most_ people can’t see without the use of their eyes. “Ah.”

“Speaking of, I have heard…” Belloc starts slowly, clearing his throat lightly and fretfully glancing to the side, then settling back on Hux with slight lift of his chin, “The sight of the jungle from this part of the city is astounding.”

Hux stares for a short, bemused moment, honestly wondering if that’s meant as some code, then becomes almost insulted. Belloc had seemed at least a passing competent two nights ago, but now he’s just being obvious, which… could be a sign of some dodgy instability; _however_ , Hux has got a Force-user who’s meant to notice when he leaves the room, which is certainly an advantage.

“Would you like to see it?” Hux asks, lilting his tone and tipping his head with an affected smirk, attempting some degree of ignorance. “My room has a lovely wraparound balcony.”

Belloc’s eyes widen just before he abruptly takes a long drink from his glass, draining it to the dregs; he looks to nearly choke on it, then swallows visibly, if not audibly, before answering with a rasp, “It would be a pleasure, General.”

“Wonderful,” Hux says, nodding and taking this as an opportunity to set his own flute of veritable syrup on a nearby ledge. He glances significantly toward the dimming light outside the large window, “I’m sure the sunset is just as beautiful tonight as it was yesterday.”

“Oh, you… You want to go now?” Belloc asks, eyes darting around the room before settling back on Hux with some manner of muted alarm – at least he’s _aware_ of the spiraling situation.

“No better time,” Hux answers, smirking back and determined to keep his expression firmly friendly, if a little sharp. He still doesn’t know what Ren is doing, but it’s hopefully the _single_ task he has for this trip – preventing Hux from being slain.

“Are you sure,” Belloc says, leaning back on his heels, “What of Prince Gheralt?”

“I’ve already dealt with him,” Hux says, gesturing outward with an affected flick of his hand. He’ll be furious if Gheralt decides now to ambush him, and suddenly cannot wait to leave before any sort of recovery of pride can be made from that direction; he hardly needs another lesson in pointless dancing.

Belloc stares back with the disbelieving expression of one who’s been watching, glancing sideways with a quirk of brows before belatedly shifting forward to follow, delicately setting his own glass on the ledge with a slow nod. “If you’re sure.”

“Oh, I am,” Hux promises, turning on a heel and making a beeline around the edges of the pillared room for the main doors, still wide open to the hall. He looks backward just as he passes the ornate molding, making sure Belloc is still following and half certain he’ll have fled, surprised to find him only a half-step behind.

Hux takes every next stride after with a sense of expectation, waiting for any sign Ren has been paying attention at all in the last few minutes; he anticipates a prickle of awareness against his skin, or a temperamental shove of foreign irritation into his mind. He doesn’t foresee how it feels to stifle some sort of disappointment when he meets the lift doors without a single indication of notice.

He takes a short, frustrated breath in front of the gently chiming lift display, pulling his data pad from his cloak pocket. He glances down with a new feeling of determination, tapping at a certain icon, then watching it scan before selecting the woefully unencrypted local net. It seems the comptroller wasn’t the only place without security.

“Is there a problem?” Belloc asks, his voice resonating almost optimistic at the prospect.

“Oh, I’m just notifying Lord Ren that he need not disturb us,” Hux says, tapping at a list and sliding down the screen with his thumb.

The hotel seems to employ a very organized system of devices and droids listed by assigned floor, which is terribly convenient, if equally and disappointingly standard. He had tried to get the First Order to use a series of codes on Starkiller for everything network-connected, but it proved too _confusing_ for the techs to parse out when something needed repair.

“Ah,” Belloc intones, sounding understandably wary with just that single syllable; Republic spies must be more familiar with Ren’s moods than most. “No matter. We are just… looking.”

“Certainly,” Hux agrees, tucking his data pad back into his cloak and gesturing for Belloc to precede him into the lift. The list had included a service floor, which is annoyingly only accessible to organics with paired code set on the outer display.

Interrogation will be more difficult without a telepath, and certainly more messy. He has the daggers, at least, to supplement – unless _they_ disappear without warning like some geist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is half of a chapter, if you were wondering why it ended so weird, and the second half is nearly done, but it's already just as long as this one, so I figured that this isn't my last WIP, I can't just dump a chapter that's TWICE as long as most chapters and four times as long as the first chapter...
> 
> Anyway, the wait for the final one will definitely not be as long. I am so fucking sorry, and I am the worst, but next week is a school holiday, so it'll definitely be out within that time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do not undermine me here,” Hux snaps, lowering his hand and curling it tight over the other on the table, turning sideways as he leans in near Ren with a with a sneer. He cannot believe Ren would choose now to start audibly participating, “Unless you've discovered a sudden place in that black heart to share.”
> 
> Ren looks away, lifting his chin somewhere at the window, “I would still just kill him.”
> 
> Gheralt takes a markedly loud inhale from across the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags added for additional accuracy; the explicit parts are quite short if you're inclined to skip. 
> 
> Thanks to [ClariceChiaraSorcha](http://archiveofourown.org/users/claricechiarasorcha/pseuds/Clarice%20Chiara%20Sorcha) for looking over a few specific parts I had trouble with, but only a few. Anything nonsensical is definitely something I didn't think to ask about.

The cam droids seem to be few and far between on the lowest level, and Hux easily sets them to loop before the lift even begins to move. A cam isn’t listed for the lift itself, something of a nag at his mind, and could easily either an oversight of security or proof that there is another hidden local network. He chooses to hope for the oversight; he doesn’t have the time to second guess every next thing. He detests these sorts of adaptive exercises, constantly doubtful of his actions until there is proof positive he’s gotten away with it.

Belloc freezes the moment the lift display hits a five instead of a seven, breath more measured and hands curling into tight fists at his sides. He doesn’t ask any questions, either, aside from the unsure look he sends Hux before immediately looking back forward to the lift doors. His expression hardens considerably in that single moment, chin lifting, and his inhale when the doors slide open on the service floor is practically an ignition.

Hux manages to block the initial swing, throwing his own forearm up and bracing in the same moment he kicks out, hooking his ankle around a Belloc’s knee and forcing him to trip out of the lift car. It earns consideration of oversight when Belloc manages to twist that into his favor, turning on the toe of one foot and digging a spun heel into the flesh of Hux’s inner thigh, then driving an elbow upward.

Hux swallows a reflexive yelp when it makes contact with his nose, sparking pain all the way up his face, and twists sideways in the next moment. He barely dodges out of the way of another fist, and reaches toward his back as he slips into a nearby door. He’s taking another risk, assuming pride will win out before survival, but he needs to get Belloc into this room.

Belloc follows in a few moments later, ignoring his opportunity at escape for the sake of going after Hux. He glances both ways once through the door, brows furrowing, and looks to completely miss the moment Hux jumps from just behind the shadow of a stack of crates.

It seems despite the incredibly inappropriate clothing, both in style and in color, Hux has managed to pin an actual living creature. The daggers help, obviously, but Hux will resign his citizenship before admitting any gratefulness to whatever prudence inspired Ren to get them.

Belloc’s flailing hands stop midair from their attempt to clasp at Hux’s wrists, eyes darting rapidly downward between the twin hilts with clear and frantic surprise.

“Do you like them?” Hux asks, curling the crux of the blades up into Belloc’s neck, pressing until a bead of red peeks across the edges, “They’re new.”

Belloc swallows, a dangerous choice.

“Endorsed by the First Order’s best torturer,” Hux continues, toning his voice into something more conversational – in his experience, it’s more frightening than any attempt to menace. The minor nasal quality from the elbow may be sullying the image, but he is the one still holding the weapons, “He’s going to be so smug that I’ve used them this soon.”

“Wait, wait,” Belloc chokes out with a shaking breath, staring at Hux from the corner of his eye. “I-I need – ”

Hux lets his hold relax, marginally, “Yes?”

“I was sent t-to speak to him,” Belloc says, eyes flickering up and down, voice a rush of little more than air. “To Kylo Ren. I have a message from-from the Elder Houses.”

Hux scoffs under his breath, intrigued by the utterly random excuse - no one ever wants to talk to Ren - and drags a thumb against the strained tendon of Belloc’s neck. “Then why approach me?”

“I-I couldn’t find him,” Belloc stammers, “He disappeared. So I sought out you.”

“You’re lying,” Hux says, lowering his voice and lilting it just so, enough to feel an answering tremor spread across Belloc’s shoulders. “You didn’t even _try_ to find him. He was by my side nearly to the moment I saw you.”

“I-I know, I knew that,” Belloc says, flickering his eyes up in some apparent attempt to garner sympathy. “Everyone knows you two are always – ”

“Oh, everyone knows do they?” Hux snaps, losing some of his restraint as something decidedly subjective crawls into his mind and takes root. It's his duty to the First Order to remain poised, but resurfacing is all that personal discontent from being left standing; the disappointment at the empty space behind him at the lifts. “ _Where_ is he then, Belloc?”

Belloc slams his eyes shut, breath speeding up again to near hysterical levels from the harder press of the blades at his neck. He must not be a regular agent, or Thvala was his first assignment, because this is just an insult to the Republic. Mitaka could keep his head better, and he’s hardly left the _Finalizer_ proper – then again, he does deal with Ren more often than anyone else, which may be an edge.

“Curiosity prevails on both counts, doesn’t it?” Hux says, exhaling in a long breath and tipping his head to the side, gathering his options from least to most rational – he hardly needs to be accused of acting hastily. It certainly gives him valid excuse to go find the absent fool. “Stay. Right. Here.”

Belloc nods again, then hisses in shock when the blade consequently bites into his neck. He’s a rather soft touch – the daggers haven’t even been activated, and it’s unlikely he even knows they can be.

“Your first mistake, Belloc,” Hux says, letting one of his hands drop and awkwardly fumbling into his cloak for his datapad, determined to keep hold the dagger should Belloc make any unwise moves at the tangible loss of threat, “Was underestimating me on my own.”

“I need to speak to – “

“Yes, yes,” Hux mutters, glancing around at a few closed cabinets and boxes, quickly finding a familiar symbol, then another; he draws up the list of droids again, finding a few deactivated units near the bottom, and appropriately listed just where he sees them stored. “I must say, there are far better ways to find him than luring me away as ransom. He would hardly have come running.”

Belloc coughs weakly, straining to stare from the corner of his eye. “He wouldn’t?”

“No,” Hux says, huffing with a small measure in disbelief. He’s fairly certain Ren would have simply killed Gheralt and used the Force, if he bothered at all.

He types in a pair of commands into a blinking line, prompting the delivery of a familiar script to both droids. He glances between the two storage containers, watching with some relief to see them pop out with gusto to do their duty. He clears his throat, “To-D01 and D02, report.”

“General Hux and a human, sir,” To-D01 chirps, sparkling eyes blinking needlessly into friendly half-circles. “Data reports that all unfamiliar sentients are hostile. You stand next to an unfamiliar sentient, so they are hostile. Confirm?”

“Yes, this sentient is very hostile,” Hux says, feeling like a fool only a moment later when he realizes he’s talking back to them like they’re children. “Should _anyone_ unfamiliar attempt to leave or enter the area, units are authorized to use any force to stop them.”

“Yes, sir,” the To-D0s answer in tandem, straightening up on their small thrusters.

“Would you like to run diagnostics, sir?” To-D02 asks, lifting up a tiny display on a claw. “Unit firmware has not been updated in forty-five rotations. Would you like to connect – ”

“None of that, thank you,” Hux says, shoving Belloc down and removing the other dagger from his neck, if perhaps a bit ungently by a telling thin smear of blood. “Hands at your back, Belloc.”

Belloc allows himself to be manhandled, barely looking up as Hux shoves the daggers back up into their sheathes, and obediently holding his shaking hands at his back. His breath seems to calm again, though it’s a little too even to be perfectly natural.

Hux hastily starts unlooping his belt, grimacing at the abrupt sag of his trousers, and crouches down to wind it around Belloc’s wrists. He scowls at the too precise length, only slightly bitter as he tugs hard at the tail to loop it up and barely manages to reconnect the clasp.

“To-D02, go monitor the entry door,” Hux says, standing and trying subtly to pull up at a waistband that seems in opposition to following his waist.

“Yes, sir.”

“To-D01,” Hux says, narrowing his voice into a bark and turning to the other service droid. “If hostile moves even a centimeter, it must be decommissioned.”

“Yes, sir,” the To-D01 says, saluting with a spindly arm, and in the same instant flipping their other hand into a low-lit flame. “Hostility will not be tolerated, sir.”

Hux nods to the droid, then looks back down to Belloc, who is staring at the welding flame with an almost ludicrous sort of fear. He clears his throat, “Now, Belloc, what should I say when he asks why I didn’t just kill you?”

Belloc glances up with a start, blinking a few times too many before he seems to remember that questions require answers. “I was sent to remind him of Elder House policies.”

“And why him?”

Belloc swallows and lowers his gaze back to the ground in front of his knees. “He’s part of one.” 

“Ah,” Hux intones, leaning back on his heels and staring down for another moment, then exhaling in a humming breath. “It will be interesting to see how long you survive knowing that.”

The grimace Belloc sends to the duracrete floor is sign enough he agrees with the grim sentiment.

Hux keeps eyes on his data pad as he leaves, making certain the cams are still sending all clears from the halls. He switches back and forth between the service droids with just as much frequency, though some degree of it is simply to look occupied, particularly when he leaves the lift on the event floor and sees a few drifters in the hall.

He’s entirely baffled as to where Ren might be, and contemplates turning around back to the lifts and going to their rooms. It is entirely likely he left completely, which would give legitimate excuse as why he hadn’t followed Hux to leave with Belloc, but brand him utterly incompetent for not staying on as bodyguard for more than fifteen lousy minutes.

“ – you touching what's mine,” a voice echoes, as if called by mere thought from the void.

Hux stops so hard he thinks something in his ankle might crack, staring in disbelief at an ajar door. He glances around to confirm that no other passersby have noticed the outburst, then peeks in, wary, and finds a long conference room with two conspicuous silhouettes at the other end, both hunched in a displeasure put in sharp relief by the fading light of a glass wall.

“I am not a moron, _Lord_ Ren,” Gheralt says, scoffing in puffed-up manner and straightening his shoulders with a gesture that has Hux ducking out of eyesight and back into the hall – he’s not yet certain he wants to be involved in this disaster in the making. “The way the General and you treat each other, it’s hardly a secret that this is only some pathetic attempt to dissuade my mother. Tonight was little more than a particularly good show.”

“Not every relationship is based on shallowness and political clout,” Ren says lowly, the snarl at his lips almost audible.

Gheralt scoffs again, though it’s almost more a cruel laugh. “Oh, and I’m supposed to believe ignoring you is how the General shows he actually _likes_ you?”

“ _Ignoring_ me?” Ren snaps, his voice appropriately incredulous.

“It’s pathetic. He barely even speaks to you,” Gheralt says, sounding unusually superior and taunting for a man standing in a room with a living bomb. His attitude is definitely something better kept private until the second year of acquaintanceship, after the third instance of damaged equipment following a botched mission. “And the way you can’t help but interrupt us at every moment to vie for attention, or how you often stare at him from behind that mask – Does a creature like you even have a _face_?”

Ren doesn’t respond for a long moment, leaving the room ominously silent until he sees fit to answer in an almost sarcastic tone, “You’ve spoken of Ben Organa.”

Hux feels his breath catch; a hundred possibilities passed through his mind in an instant, but not this one – Ren wouldn’t destroy near ten years of cover for the chance to humiliate… Or, maybe he would. Hux has seen him do far too many rash things in the heat of the moment to completely rule out this manner of self-ruin.

Gheralt for his part, sounds appropriately baffled, “Yes?”

“And his murder,” Ren continues, his mocking tone only growing stronger.

“Some,” Gheralt agrees, his confusion turning sensibly into wariness.

Ren gives his own scoff, as if spiteful at Gheralt’s earlier exaggerated disbelief. “Do you ever wonder who it was that spared you the apparent _horror_ of his company?”

“No. I mean… Yes, but – ” Gheralt stutters into silence, his sharp-heeled boot clacking against tile as he takes a step back. “It’s not possible.”

“I cleansed his weak mind of pathetic hopes and dreams,” Ren says, his menace seeming to spread like a wave, even to where Hux stands outside the far door – it makes him freeze, unsure if he’s been caught overhearing. “I left his body broken and breathless on Skywalker’s steps, among the other feeble children. Do you know what _that_ means?”

Gheralt doesn’t answer, the silence stretching over a minute, and Hux wishes he had some way to see that painted face stretched in horror. He wants to walk in, to act as if this was some planned attack, but a small part of him appreciates far too much that Ren is doing this entirely on his own volition.

“You should fear me,” Ren says, impatient after waiting for an answer to his own rhetorical question. A heavy boot stomps familiarly, presumably forward and closer to Gheralt, “I want you to remember what I did to Prince Organa, with all _his_ familial power, and that I am a short length from doing to you.”

“No,” Gheralt says, his denial little more than a bark of dismay, “You would never.”

“You, your mother, your entire weak-willed government – all consumed by my wrath,” Ren says, his voice raising with vehemence, loud enough that Hux glances furtively around again for any other eavesdroppers, only to suddenly strain his ears to hear the next few words. “It would by _my_  courting gift to him.”

“Hux doesn’t – ”

“You’ve hardly met _Hux_ ,” Ren snaps, and that calm menace suddenly breaks apart into something new as a feral edge enters his voice; a telltale splintering rings out the doors, then an uneven clatter as if something has fallen unevenly the ground. “That is my privilege alone. I see him behind closed doors and hold his attention in my own right, and you will never have the same pleasure.”

The ensuing silence stretches, and Hux finds himself caught unexpectedly on this implication – no, this _declaration_ that Ren genuinely enjoys his company. It could be rationalized away, and easily, as part of the act, but… Hux didn’t _ask_ him to do this, has little idea what even instigated it, and the sudden loss of composure was too impetuous, like a performance falling apart rather than settling.

He takes a step away from the door, inhaling an uneven breath - no one has _ever_ said that about him; no one has even toadied before him with such a lie, yet Ren stands to brag about it. It makes him feel somewhere between flustered and utterly terrified, and entirely uneager to look at closely why.

Ren emerges from the darkened room only a moment later, pausing with a visible start just outside the door. A low prickle skips across Hux’s skin, and Ren’s head abruptly twitches sideways, “General?”

“Lord Ren,” Hux says, feeling somehow both a fool and haughty as he flicks a loose lock of hair back; he’s having a difficult time reining his expression for some frustrating reason, and clears his throat with a low cough, “Lovely speech, the third-person was a nice touch.”

Ren is silent for a long moment, then exhales in a low, affronted breath, turning on his heel in a manner that effectively drives Hux in close to the wall. His stare seems piercing despite his blindness, though absent any use of Force, “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“Neither are you,” Hux says, angling his chin up a measure further, giving into a mad urge to slide a hand up around Ren’s exposed bicep and curl his fingers into the gentle dip of muscle. The move pays off as more than particularly rash when Gheralt follows Ren out the door, pausing a moment to stare before rushing down the hall, eyes at the ground.

Ren is quiet for a long moment afterward, then tilts his head in his usual fashion of confusion; it casts the veil over the side of his face like a sheet, tracing across his nose and the pitch of his frown. “You left.”

Hux grudgingly shrugs his assent with a single shoulder, then belatedly remembers _what_ led him to leaving, as well as eavesdropping. He steps to the side in the next moment, keeping his hand firm and entirely aware he might be pulling a little too hard in his urgency for Ren to follow. “Come along, I’ve captured a Republic agent.”

Ren crowds in closer as they walk, his incredulity a heady feeling as it sweeps across Hux’s mind, hopefully missing any lingering sentiment from just moments earlier. _‘You’ve what?’_

 _‘He’s asked to speak to you specifically – something about Elder Houses,’_ Hux explains, slowing his pace and letting his hand drift down to Ren’s elbow. He glances into the main hall as they pass the wide doors, _‘I’ve chosen to entertain the request rather than killing him; curiosity and all.’_

 _‘Is it Gheralt?’_ Ren asks, a tinge of optimism suddenly in his tone, curling around the words in a manner that inspires a notion of self-delusion rather than some sort of genuine hope. _‘Perhaps it is about House Andeles.’_

 _‘As I’ve said, the message is for **you** ,’ _Hux responds, impatiently tapping at the edge of the lift door, waiting and listening for the car to arrive – he’s suddenly certain that the service droids have failed in their tasks, even armed with lit welders. _‘So unlikely.’_

 _‘You could have gotten it out of him,’_ Ren insists, now outright reluctant despite his usual fervor for this sort of thing. He’s basically being given free reign to act a terror for the first time this trip; he should be more grateful.

 _‘I’m not going to start doing your job, Ren,’_ Hux glares out the corner of his eye, then steps forward as the lift doors open, pressing in the code for the lowest level before Ren has even walked fully inside. _‘And I think even you’ll agree that it is much less trouble to simply listen while he willingly tells you.’_

Ren visibly startles at the descent of the lift, lifting a hand as if to feel the passing air. “Where are we going?”

“Down,” Hux says, re-checking the statuses of the cam droids and feeling paranoid for it when they show all-clear. “The security is incredibly awful, if you were wondering. It took little more than intercepting an _open_ channel to sneak in and set a loop on the cams.”

Ren hums quietly, nodding slowly in tandem with a short, evident nudge at Hux’s mind that abruptly disappears – as if he thought about doing something rash then stopped himself.  

“What?” Hux asks slowly, sliding the data pad back into his jacket.

“The man you left with,” Ren says, tilting his head just so to the side, so he’s facing Hux, and then taking a short breath, “He’s the agent?”

“Oh, so you did notice,” Hux says, leaning back on his heels as if surprised; the off-hand comment earlier was proof enough, but the mood there had been… distracting – this feels like a proper confirmation of his own displeasure. “I expected you to follow, as is your _responsibility_ , instead I’m forced back up here to find you entangled with Gheralt.”

“I wasn’t entangled,” Ren mutters, sighing softly and looking forward, shoulders shifting into some sort of slump.

“Whatever you’d call it,” Hux says, gesturing outward with his hand palm up and turning back to face the lift doors. “Alone with him. Hostile.”

Ren exhales hard in some manner of frustration, shaking his head until his unruly hair near falls completely over his covered eyes. “He approached me after you left. Angry. I… I was waiting on the balcony, and welcomed the distraction rather than mind-tricking him.”

“Waiting,” Hux repeats, hearing the word dull with skepticism, “For _what_?”

Ren only breathes for a few moments, then tips his head, plainly reluctant, “To go upstairs. I did not want to… interrupt. Anything.”

Hux flicks his eyes back to his own blurred reflection, staring hard and determined to interpret that into any sort of sense, then inhales sharply, glancing sideways again with indignant epiphany. “I cannot _believe_ you.”

“What was I supposed to think?” Ren says, his voice little more than a quiet, defensive rush.

“I met him two days ago,” Hux says, lips curling into a snarl for all Ren can see the display of irritation – it feels more for himself at this point.  “I am so furious with you right now.”

Ren is silent for beat, then tips his head to the side at Hux as if to peek through the metal blindfold. “No. You’re not.”

“I am in disbelief of you,” Hux amends, looking away from the moron to his right as the lift doors open, taking an overlarge step forward. “Bitterly.”

“I didn’t want to believe it,” Ren mutters, petulant as if his own assumptions are somehow outside his control.

“Then you shouldn’t have,” Hux snaps, hearing his voice raise tellingly in the echoing hall before he turns rapidly on his heels into the storage room to muffle himself. “You’re so bloody-minded.”

“Lord Ren, General Hux,” To-D01 greets at the door, it’s very presence effectively jarring the mood back into something resembling professional.

To-D02 is still in its place at the back, also waving, “Welcome, Lord Ren!”

Ren outright balks at the racket, which is somewhat satisfying, a prickle skimming the room again before he looks with a particularly baffled tilt of his head down at the droid. “Hello?”

“I’ve taken control of some droids as well,” Hux says, watching them brightly greet Ren and feeling unexpectedly embarrassed at the sight; he’s going to have to remove him from the list of recognizable sentients in the script. He’s not sure why Ren is in there at all.

“They’re… pleasant,” Ren says, skirting around the edge of the droid in a ludicrously slow pair of steps. “Odd.”

Hux rolls his eyes, approaching the hunched form of Belloc in the relative center; the shipments make it difficult to parse out the true size of the room. “Most service droids are when you’ve not sliced their brethren in half.”

Belloc’s eyes dart between Hux and the To-D02, then lower again to the floor, barely breathing. He’s clearly been attempting to hold his position absolutely still for the minutes Hux has been gone. It must be some kind of torture, incidental as it is, but it sets a fitting tone for what could happen – frightening, but nothing truly dangerous. They don't have the remotest clearance for that here, especially with this being some personal matter.

Hux walks past Belloc at the front, gesturing for the droid to back off, and settles near the far wall. He’ll let Ren take point, as the message is technically for him, though he hardly deserves the privilege with his so recent stupidity.

“You have a message,” Ren says, lowering his voice to something impassive, as if trying to emulate the tone of the helmet.

Belloc sends a darting look under his brows, glancing over Hux and to the attentive droids, then carefully tilting his head up toward Ren. “Yes. I was ordered to deliver it personally.”

“You are,” Ren says, settling his stance until he’s squared with his shoulders, like this is something more official than a slapped together meeting in a basement. “Speak.”

Belloc takes a deep breath, then exhales with that distinctly measured cadence of practiced recital. “I am to remind you of a founding tenet of the Elder Houses: a House can only marry into a House. Your… fiancé does not qualify under any fringe lines, which renders the engagement null. The representative for House Organa apologizes for any distress this may cause you or, uh –  your beloved.”

Hux stares in shock, first at the explicit declaration of him as Ren’s _beloved_ , then at the implicit suggestion of knowledge to his illegitimacy, of Maratelle never deigning to adopt. A familiar, bitter emotion wells at the back of his throat and threatening to sink heavy into his chest. He looks back to Belloc, doggedly raising his brows in attempt to deflect. “Does this apply to Thvala? Is the Sovereign acting outside of – “

“House _Andeles_ was not part of the original Council of twenty-six,” Ren interrupts, the low sigh some signal of aggravated recollection. He lifts a hand, running it twice through his exposed hair, “They took no oath, and are bound by only personal discretion.”

“As are you, no matter this _message_ ,” Hux says, scoffing under his breath and still trying to clear out the weird quiver of distress at the back of his tongue. “Said Organa representative set quite a precedent; televised, if I remember correctly.”

The silence becomes even more tense in the next few moments, only worsening further when Ren inhales slow and deliberate, “She had an investigation put in before they were married.”

Hux feels his eyes widen, reduced to outright incredulity, “You _cannot_ be serious.”

“It wasn’t… proven otherwise,” Ren says, head shifting oddly for a moment as he shrugs, rolling his shoulders backward. “Solo was a house a few hundred years ago – ”

“Solo is a bloody _adjective_ ,” Hux snaps, gesturing sharply with a single hand at little more than his slowly expanding fury; he’s not certain why it matters, they aren’t _really_ affianced, but it’s the principle. “Are you telling me anyone calling themself Solo could claim noble blood?”

Ren exhales with a heavy breath, tilting his head as if to glower easier at Belloc. “Apparently.”

“That is ludicrous favoritism,” Hux says, wishful for something more coherent to say, but his mind is still reeling at the revelation his worth is still tied to little more than ancient clans and their money. 

“It would be legal by certain governments,” Ren says, turning his head to the side and voice ringing with an odd note of consideration, one hand lifting slightly before falling back to his side. “Hutts and… And First Order.”

“It hardly matters,” Hux says, attempting to preserve any apathy for the situation, and failing utterly. It doesn't matter if the engagement is false, he's not going to stand here and let some archaic figureheads presume to control his personal life. “You’re dead, therefore hold no responsibility to this House.”

“Missing,” Ren corrects, lifting a hand as if to run it through his hair again, then dropping it to his side, “Presumed dead.”

Hux raises his brows, staring at Ren a long moment, then glances down with his own affected sneer toward Belloc. “Is _that_ why you've been following us – hopeful to reclaim Prince Ben?”

“Hux,” Ren snaps, low voice suddenly bordering on strident.

Belloc swallows, head shaking side to side with his shoulders curling in around his ears, “I was just meant to deliver the message, I didn’t…”

“Yes?” Hux prompts, lifting his voice just the other side of condescending.

“I was only here to monitor House Andeles; I didn’t know who you were before I reported in,” Belloc says, lifting his head with a miserable stare, slowly dragging his teeth along his lower lip and letting his shoulders fall. “General Organa was… less than satisfied with my update.”

“Oh, tragic,” Hux mutters, rolling his eyes and leaning back into the wall. He allows a smirk to slide across his face, and enjoys the nervous way Belloc swallows at the sight – futility aside, the man came here with intent to botch a relationship. “You expected your little conversation two days ago to end in a promotion. I wonder how she'll feel at the news we've settled on perpetual engagement?”

A low huff indicates Ren agreeing to the sentiment with recovering humor, though how much of it is for show can only be presumed. He reaches for his side, sliding his fingers against the flowing fabric at his waist, and reveals a distinct shape amongst the folds.

Belloc recognizes the weapon as well, the Galaxy only so small, and predictably starts to breathe in that certain panicked way that prisoners always seem to think is subtle.

“Don’t be so hasty, darling,” Hux interrupts, lazily kicking off the wall and watching Ren roll his shoulders backward; his saber is now held loosely in-hand, but deactivated. “Why don’t we give our messenger a medal? As consolation for his imminent demotion.”

Ren tilts his head, a brief mental nudge preceding a short nod, and he stands up straight, tucking the saber back at his side. “Not here.”

“Goodness, no,” Hux says, walking straight between Belloc and Ren, making a show of rolling his eyes toward the misshapen stacks of long-forgotten shipments still in crates and under dusty tarps. He drops his voice in case Ren’s Force can’t detect the movement, “We’d hardly want to make a mess.”

Ren slowly turns his head, sending one of those vexing prickles and an exhale, _‘General.’_

Hux entertains the idea of drawing this out, but concedes with a grab inside his jacket for his data pad. He drags his finger across until it brings up the interface for the building droids, now blinking worryingly fast, and opens it to find nearly a hundred errors dashing upward with urgent little icons. _‘Fine, get him out. I’ll deactivate the droids.’_

He ignores the subsequent yelps from Belloc as Ren summarily grabs him by little more than air, lifting him up until he’s standing straight, then shoving forward until the service door slides open. The hall remains dark and quiet when Hux makes his way out, a soft swish of recycled air the only sound beyond footsteps and Belloc’s slowly increasing rate of breath.

Ren pulls up short just in front of a conveniently labeled exit, stopping Belloc with an unsubtle clench of his hand. _‘Cam droid.’_

Hux waves him off, already drawing his finger down and finding a neat section labeled for exterior droids. It’s likely this will set off a few more alarms than a disconnected service droid, but they shouldn’t be out here too long. _‘Ten minutes.’_

Ren immediately shoves Belloc forward again, nearly cracking him against the door jam. His other hand holds Hux's improvised cuffs, ‘ _Short_.’

 _‘You’re welcome to do better,’_ Hux responds, absently glaring upward and sliding his data pad back into his inner pocket, following just behind Ren’s stomping footsteps. He feels a fool looping his belt as he walks, but discomfort is paramount to shame.

The alley is disturbingly clear even from Hux’s modest experience, and the surrounding buildings are ornately carved even this far down where no one will see. A pair of shuttle-sized tree trunks interrupt the duracrete terrain down the alley and across the street, roots large and curling, branches bursting up into the sky and interrupting the traffic that lies a far too many meters up.

Hux looks over to find Belloc staring half panicked, eyes darting between Ren and he with a certain air of hysterical confusion and rubbing at his wrists. It doesn’t seem to be the sort usually shown by a detainee on the brink of terror, but that could be some spread of variation – Hux has less experience in this field than he’d like to admit.  

“General Hux, please,” Belloc gasps, taking a step forward with a pleading look on his face. He reaches out with an open hand, “I only – “

Hux recoils as a burst of foreign anger splits his mind, and trips backward in the same moment to avoid a crackling red that spreads in a wave across the alley, two neat whirls of the blade ensuring a scream follows in its wake. He blinks at the sight of scorched flesh falling with dull thumps onto the cobbled ground, and Belloc soon following on his knees and choking in pain.

Hux stares for a long moment, letting his mind catch up with the sight in front of him, then takes a deep breath and reaches up to press two fingers across his brow. “I’m sorry, Ren, are you late for something?”

“He tried to grab you,” Ren growls, like that’s reason enough to needlessly cut a man’s hand off in not one, but what amounts to six pieces, slicing first at the knuckles and then just near the wrist, leaving a wriggling half-thumb behind. It’s gruesome to look at, if a mess small enough that some scavenger might easily rid the city of evidence – a benefit that is surely little more than an accident. 

“What if I wanted to know more than your family’s dysfunction?” Hux says, refusing a compulsion to raise his voice and instead gesturing upward. He entertains a thought to shove at Ren’s shoulder, then glances down to the still-activated saber and thinks better of it. “He’ll be in shock and useless now.”

“You would have asked him,” Ren says, lifting his chin, though the fact he neglects to turn and actually look as he speaks is telling enough that he might have _some_ regret. It’s likely a negligible amount, because he’s got a white knuckled grip on his saber and is still radiating a good amount of rage at Belloc.

Hux drops his hand, letting it curl at his side as he glances down himself at Belloc, then exhales slow, snapping his chin toward the open end of the alley. “Best jog on, then, unless you’d like to him to run you through.”

Belloc cowers over his ruined hand, glancing panicked between Ren’s saber and Hux, and swallowing with a trembling breath. “You’re n-not going to k-k-kill me?”

“I will if I ever see you again,” Hux promises, ignoring the quiet rumble of foreign bloodlust still threatening to beat at his temples from the outside. He looks sideways again with a narrowing glare, the lit blade a quickly becoming an irritant in the empty alley, “Turn that thing off.”

Ren’s head still barely twitches sideways, “Why?”

“It’s giving the entire city a headache,” Hux says, gesturing across the entirely empty low streets passing in front of them. It is rather curious for no one to be down here, not even a pest, but if they _were_ they’d be just as aggravated by the noise.

Ren exhales with a disbelieving scoff, fully turning his attention, it seems, just to give a condescending tilt of his chin. “You’re too sensitive.”

“It’s not even meant to make that noise,” Hux says, returning the sentiment in full; he’s read hundreds of reports of Ren making field repairs of needful tech, and the fact this _elite_ weapon hasn’t been given the same consideration is a total, aggravating mystery.

“They all make noise,” Ren says, tone bordering now on outright mocking, “They expend energy.”

“I know they’re not meant to sound like slavering beasts, _Ren_ ,” Hux snaps, leaning inward on the balls of his feet with a cutting glance downward to the saber – only to abruptly remember that Ren cannot even _see_ him, prompting a tickle of heat to draw up against his neck.

The limitation doesn’t seem to matter, with Ren mirroring the taunt with his own shift on his feet, hand pointedly turning the saber in a manner that _might_ have been threatening a few years ago.

A weak sob interjects whatever claim Ren was gearing to defend, a wet, shaky noise ending in a low whimper; a second one soon follows, more pathetic and mournful than the first.

Ren slowly turns back forward and whirls the saber in his hand, undoubtedly just to be infuriating by the extraneous noise that is thrown across the stone walls, then clears his throat – almost like a laugh. “Is this seeing him again?”

“…No,” Hux decides, grimacing down at the pitiful specimen still cowering in front of him. The blistering remains of pale fingers and disjointed knuckles suddenly draw his attention, and for a moment he thinks one of them might be moving. “Three minutes. Maybe less.”

Ren hums low, as if thinking on disagreeing, but instead the alley darkens marginally after suddenly being extinguished of its red light. The high lamps of the building behind them fill in the lack, casting soft green across the stone slabs and artificial brick.

Belloc stares up a few seconds longer, proving himself a moron twice-over, then stumbles unsteadily to his feet. He backs up in a manner that looks to be a series of near-falls, using the uneven wall as a guide, and disappears around the far corner with a clear goal of the main streets.

“We should go back inside,” Ren says, tucking his saber back into his waist and gesturing at the door, which swings open with far too much ease. He must have been holding it open during the entire encounter. “Now.”

“Is anyone else spying?” Hux murmurs, stepping in front of him and glancing through the door, into the still-empty service hall.

Ren gives a frustrated noise under his breath, crowding Hux further into the building with a hand low on his back, “Ask _before_ you go in.”

“Shut it,” Hux says, reaching back and trying to shove him off, lengthening his stride when the area is confirmed clear from end to end. “It’s not as if I expect you to be that useful.”

The entire level is as empty now as it was only minutes ago, and Hux feels like it’s going to fall down around his ears even as they step into the lift. He should have just killed Belloc, and now an unaccounted-for spy is going to report back to the Republic that… _Well_ , that's another question: what can he report that hasn't already been compromised? Belloc hadn’t gained access to anything more sensitive than Ren’s temper.

The source of the injuries would be too obvious to cover even if they had killed him, the saber a hardly subtle weapon, and it’s unlikely the venerable General Organa will do anything more than make vague accusations at Senate meetings – she’s even less authorized to act than the First Order. It may be a technical victory, in all honesty, disabling some minor Republic connection to this system.

Hux looks up at the rising numbers, feeling accomplished at lulling himself into a sense of composure, then glances sideways with a start when he realizes _Ren_ has been entirely too silent. There’s been no dry mockery of Hux’s churning thoughts, nor any foreign emotion pressed ungently to his mind, and it’s entirely too odd now he’s become reluctantly accustomed to it.

He gently clears his throat, feeling absurd in this attempt to clear the suddenly tense air. “Your sight exercise seems to be going well.”

Ren is silent for almost another ten levels, then exhales heavily, “Satisfactory.”

Hux stares in bemusement, now thoroughly baffled at the cause for this unexpected sulk – is this because he didn’t want Ren to kill Belloc? He hadn't _seemed_ like he truly cared either way.

A relief like none other floods Hux’s veins when the lift stops at their floor with a quiet chirp, and he tries to ignore the discomforting awkwardness attempting to dog at his steps. He presses his data pad to the door with barely a pause, listening for Ren to walk in behind him, and watches out of the corner of his eye as the mask is torn off and cast aside in an apparent march for the wrap-around balcony.

Hux follows the sight with some minor dread pooling in his gut, waiting for any manner of dangerous, stupid display to go on when Ren pauses at the railing. A few long seconds later, though, the night proves still clear and silent, no saber strikes or rumored skills of lightening disturbing the relative peace of the open-air.

Hux waits another moment, then forces himself cross the room, biting slightly at his lip while he convinces himself this is a good idea. A minor chill sneaks in passed the releasing pressure of the exterior door, and he reflexively pulls the cloak around his arms as he edges up next to Ren; the bottom of the balcony is completely indiscernible from the sky, and the sharp inhale he takes is only half meant as hailing, “Ren, what – “

“I am _not_ useless,” Ren bursts out, speaking over Hux in a voice twisting high with frustration. He turns on a heel, wearing a stare that is almost tangibly aggressive as he steps forward nearer Hux and lifts his hands to gesture in front of himself, opening and closing his hands, muscle flexing all the way up his arms, “My strength is opportunity – particularly to you, and particularly this week.”

Hux stares for a few moments, letting his mouth fall open into a shallow exhale that he might reluctantly call surprise. He has that tickling at his mind again; the feeling he should be understanding this with greater weight. A moment later, too long by Ren’s churlish expression, he finally recalls the sneering Sovereign, Ren’s open indignation, and narrows his eyes in disbelief. “Have you truly been caught up in this for the whole trip?”

“I know! This concern beneath me in every manner imaginable, yet...” Ren trails off, breathing hard through his nose and lowering his hands, still held in fists even when his shoulders slump. “I keep being reminded of it at every turn. It’s overtaking my entire mind.”

“Ren,” Hux sighs, feeling at a rare loss; he’s never given a single thought to the idea Ren might feel… sensitive about this sort of thing. “I realize this system is a bit – ”

“The entire _Galaxy_  is like this,” Ren shouts, causing a minor shake to the suddenly very precarious balcony; he doesn’t appear to notice, nor seems eager to take his anger to a safer place inside. “Everyone watches and mocks, saying they know things they don’t just to feel important; judging based on lies and rumors rather than truth. I _hate_ it.”

“Calm down,” Hux says, wincing slightly only an instant later - perhaps the least wise thing to do with Kylo Ren is tell him to _calm down._ He swallows thickly and grasps for another step away from this outright self-flagellation – he doesn't have contingencies for Ren destroying a glass balcony and killing them both. “That part of your life is long over. You saw to it yourself.”

“It _isn't_ ,” Ren growls, gesturing out toward the sky with an angry swipe toward the sky, budging another step closer in his anger, eyes blazing with fervor. “A cam droid paused on me tonight – I’ll be on the holonet before next cycle.”

“No, no, you won’t,” Hux says, hesitantly lifting a hand to Ren’s chest and lightly tapping in a manner he hopes is less peculiar than it feels, his thumb just near touching warm skin. “Even if you are, no one knows who you really are except me.”

Ren's fervor actually seems to calm under the clumsy patting, and he gives a low exhale, tipping his head just so to the side and looking similar to how he grudgingly agrees when wearing the helmet. He barely looks up again before his eyes dart back down, now worrying at his lip with marked intent and edging with unsteady little hesitations into Hux’s space. He abruptly moves forward, leaning in with a sharp breath – only to stall and shift back again with an odd tremor at his lips.

Hux blinks and in the next moment finds his fingers clenched into Ren’s relative collar with little conscious thought, holding him in place. He feels robbed of something, similar to earlier in the evening, and has finally realized what it is – Ren _wants_ him, and Hux… isn't all that averse, despite all sense. “You would follow every impulse into action but this?”

Ren exhales hard, eyes going wide as if shocked, and twists backward, easily breaking away in the same instant he heaves another rumbling breath. “Impulse? You're only being caught up in a charade _, General_.”

Hux scoffs back in little more than disbelief, forcing his hand back toward his own chest and grasping for words, only to a step back on his heel when an utterly mortifying flash of heat spreads down his neck. He sneers as his flagging conviction reaches some sort of awful valley, mouth falling open just as his higher brain desperately tells him to simply stay quiet. “I’m hardly the one being caught up, _Ren_. I heard you menacing Gheralt, and you're not that talented an actor.”

Silence stretches for a long few moments, filled by only measured breaths and Ren's shifting his gaze to the edges of the balcony. His tongue peeks briefly between his lips, bitten between teeth, before he closes his mouth in a pinched line.

“Well?” Hux prompts, lifting his brows and gesturing upward with an open hand. He’s fairly certain the bravado masks any persistent doubt, disregarding that ever lingering suspicion Ren may be sifting through his mind.

“So then is this… sudden pretense little more than some bid of yours at legitimizing the act for a few days?” Ren asks, shifting his wide shoulders up and practically toward his ears in some peculiar lean forward. “Easier to deter Gheralt by manipulating me, then.”

Hux stares in stunned disbelief, ignoring a renewed flush crawling up his neck. It’s of an entirely different, if just as mortifying, sentiment – it seems Ren actually thinks him just that awful. “If I were going to manipulate you, it would’ve been done. Don’t insult me.”

He turns on his heel, feeling both humiliated and peculiarly disappointed. He unclips his cloak, throwing it on the bedside settee, and contemplates the pettiness of calling down the _Upsilon_ to just leave Ren here, reprogramming the tracker to keep a minimum distance rather than maximum. It wouldn’t have to last long, only enough for Ren to have to embarrass himself by calling for extraction.

He reaches for the daggers at his back, feeling almost bitter about them as he curls his fingers around the sheaths, only to become sidetracked when a polished glint catches at the corner of his eye. Ren had thrown down the mask carelessly, eager to see, and Hux feels an all-too-late epiphany burst across his mind with a vengeance at the sight of it.

He reaches down and picks it up, the edges biting momentarily at his hand when he clutches it in anger. He exhales slowly, biting at the inside of his lip, then throws it like a discus at the fool still standing on the balcony. “I cannot believe you would accuse me, when you’re the one who started it!”

Ren easily catches the mask, blinking slowly and daring to look confused. “What?”

“Agreeing to wear that awful thing, _literally_ blinding yourself,” Hux says, lifting his hands and feeling an urge to pace the room. He drops them to the elbow, clenching into tense fists, “And then at that party, you outright volunteer despite two days ago being livid at the tactic – you knew I hadn’t thought about it, didn’t you?”

Ren looks down and turns the mask in his hands, now looking utterly caught, but nowhere approaching regretful. A twist that might qualify as a smirk curls at his lips before being suppressed into a pale line.

“You _absolute_ hypocrite,” Hux snaps, forcing both hands down to his hips and trying to keep from continuing any more embarrassing gesturing. He can feel his fingers curling in hard enough to bruise, but the discomfort is worth keeping from turning manic; the fact he sincerely wants this so bad has snuck up on him. “Daring to act slighted after exploiting my ignorance not two hours ago.”

Ren tips his head back and forth, taking a few steps forward and finally into the room. He pauses after once again getting far too near to Hux, but only sighs, finally looking a little shame-faced as he throws the mask onto the bed. “I didn’t expect you to realize this soon.”

“Oh, oh I see,” Hux says, leaning back and giving an exaggerated scoff, shrugging with a single shoulder. He’s having some difficulty suddenly of looking away from Ren’s deceptively apologetic pout, “So is it not as _attractive_ if I'm amenable?”

Ren exhales with a low scoff, mouth folding down into a scowl. “It's just. Difficult to believe.”

Hux weighs his options for perhaps less time than he should, spurred by this veritable dare, and reaches forward to settle this himself with a few fingers winding into gauzy fabric. He waits until Ren glances up between quick blinks, then leans in with a short breath, pausing only when he makes contact with a pair of now loosely acquainted lips – hesitant and unsure, yet undeniably responsive.

He feels bolstered, and shoves in closer at the next moment, pressing a harder kiss that has Ren exhaling hot and heavy, mouth slackening in shock. Long fingers land on top of Hux's other hand looking for purchase, easily outspanning thumb to finger across his hip and splaying out onto his waist, but the grip soon goes lax as if Ren has some notion to step backward.

Hux twists his hand upward in an instant and curls his fingers around a wide wrist, holding Ren in place and reclaiming his place with an open mouth. He wants suddenly, or perhaps not so very, to possess every piece of Ren, reduce him to baser parts and consume him. It’s the least he deserves, after all, for denying to acknowledge this for untold days and now eagerly taking his fill. It's some part Ren's fault, and Hux isn't feeling particularly rational about anything right now.

He feels a nudge of discomfort, then a burst of foreign eagerness spreading across his mind, and wonders what sort of madness has overcome him to have missed in such a short time that sensation. It's joined by the physical touch of Ren pushing back at him, larger then ever by virtue of proximity; he thinks the loose grip around his other arm might actually have overlap.

He takes a step back when Ren attempts to nudge forward, then another, and feels his heel kick up against the solid wood frame holding up the bed. It suddenly seems to be moving both too quick and too slow, and he shoves in until Ren’s hands lose their places to scrambling at Hux's back for better purchase, ending spread across the daggers like braces against his spine.

“Ah, good,” Hux murmurs, feeling large fingers slide gracelessly under his jacket and unclip the hidden sheathes; it wouldn’t do to literally stab himself in the back, as dull as the leather would be.

He pulls hard once the weapons are safely on the table, dragging Ren along until they're both prone on top of the coverlet, crowded by pillows. They settle in a particularly favorable position that Hux can't be sure was even deliberate – Ren folded over him with one thigh pressed hard into the aching crux of Hux's legs.

“I’m surprised you managed to keep this hidden,” Hux says, his voice becoming little more than breath as he rocks his hips upward, trying to encourage more effective friction. He has half a mind to curl an ankle behind Ren’s, leverage up, but he doesn't want to seem _too_ wanton. “You're hardly so subtle.”

Ren mutters something unintelligible under his breath, and even seems to return to his old habit of avoiding Hux’s eyes. It should be harder than it is considering how close they are, but Ren has always been rather accomplished at avoiding culpability. 

“ _Ren_ ,” Hux says, reluctantly forcing his rational mind upward as he awkwardly reaches to grab at Ren’s face, forcing him to look down.

“It doesn't make sense,” Ren mutters, visibly swallowing and beginning to worry at already-reddened lips. “This isn't something you would do.”

Hux stares for another long moment, then exhales, dripping his head back to the pillows. “I think it would be worse if it was, don't you?.”

“No?”

“To clarify,” Hux starts, lifting a hand and, without looking, dragging his fingers along the curving muscle of the tense arm held rigid to keep a very heavy man over his ribs. “If this made sense, as you say, it would mean it _was_ something I planned to use against you.”

Ren sighs at length, his hesitancy mixing with a clear frustration, “I don’t mean that.”

“Explain yourself better, then,” Hux says, tipping his chin down and taking his other hand to sink into Ren’s thick hair, winding the curls around his fingers. It’s just as absurdly soft as it has always looked, giving credence to the earlier joke he was carrying around conditioners.

“No,” Ren says, dropping down at the elbow and laying himself across Hux’s front, heavy and distracting, “Nevermind.”

“Don’t get stroppy about it later,” Hux murmurs, fairly certain the request will prove futile.

He tilts his head to the side, getting sidetracked himself by the soft, just slightly uneven lips now trailing wetly up his neck. He hums, loosening the grip on Ren’s hair to slide down and clutch at his nape, at the same time feeling a clumsy foreign hand try to work its way into his stiffly pressed jacket. He lets the struggle continue for more than a few seconds, somewhat spitefully enjoying the fact Ren clearly has no idea how to unbutton it.

Ren gives up a few moments later, groaning as he shoves his nose into the warm space between Hux’s shirtcollar and neck, “Smug _._ ”

“Move, then,” Hux says, kicking upward with his untrapped knee and encouraging Ren to shift away. The idea of Ren reduced to tearing the costume to pieces is pleasant, but not particularly realistic.

He plans fully to simply stand and throw the jacket to the side, but… Instead, he feels his body acting as if on its own authority, twisting until he manages to reverse their position rather than break it. He’s straddling far more aggressively than Ren had been, almost sitting rather than prone, and leans down to flatten his hands along the warm, wide planes of Ren’s exposed chest rather than moving for his own jacket.

“This is _obscene_ ,” Hux says, grabbing at the loose edges of the gauzy fabric and dragging it to the side until Ren’s full chest is patently on display, framed in an entirely different, if just as distracting manner than it has been all night. “Utterly obscene.”

Ren stares up, blinking rapidly from Hux’s hands to his face, seemingly stuck on surprise from this assault on his own person coming at so many angles. “Is it?”

“You wear so much that many in the First Order could hardly have told you were human,” Hux says, sliding both thumbs in tangent along the standout edges of Ren’s pectorals, watching the muscle jump and flinch at the touch. He has a mad urge to lean down and drag his tongue against the same places, “And now an entire floor of spoiled aristocrats has seen you practically indecent.”

“In some manner,” Ren agrees, eyes following the movements of Hux’s hands with a quick peek of his tongue through his lips, then gasping in shock when fingers tug hard on an exposed nipple.

“If you're interested, Belloc told me what Gheralt has had you wear,” Hux says, sliding his hands down from Ren’s chest significantly more southward, tracing along the sinfully defined impressions of his abdomen. "A costume as much as mine."

Ren mutters something unintelligible, markedly arching his back in response to the latest movement. His own hands are still on the bedspread, twisting into the plush fabric.

“Gheralt, it seems, was being cheeky,” Hux says, leaning forward and pausing, then pressing a short kiss just under Ren’s ear, along a protruding tendon, “Calling you my _whore_.”

The relative insult seems to draw Ren’s attention back to the conversation, mouth pinching with nearly pouty offense, “Whore?”

“Or,” Hux says, leaning up with a sarcastic tip of his head, tapping his fingers just to watch Ren’s eyes tick downward with distraction. “An ancient sex worker lacking eyes. Personally, I think he meant the first.”

Ren glances toward the far flung mask, gaze little more than a flicker sideways, “No eyes?”

“A cruelty on the part of the upper class,” Hux says, watching the play of thought across Ren’s face.

“Oh,” Ren says, looking down at his own chest with an odd light in his eyes, mouth twisting up. He exhales at length a moment later, humming low, “You'd rather kiss a man dressed as a whore, than a prince.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, not quite stupid enough to disagree that he actually kissed a middling of the two. “So?”

“Everyone was staring at me,” Ren continues, finally initiating his own exploration and sliding his hands up Hux’s thighs, easily spanning across the width of them. “But they weren’t disgusted. Gheralt was. You slighted him in front of his peers.”

“Hardly a difference,” Hux says, tightening his legs in turn and grinding back, feeling proof of Ren being more than a little interested in the proceedings. His recent displays of near-nudity have hardly made his size a secret, but it seems he may be… Well, a grower _as well_ as a shower.

“It was different,” Ren says, grip tightening as he leans up, pulling Hux in closer with a jerk forward and pressing his bare lips to the inside of Hux’s clothed knee. “Is.”

Hux indulges the oddity, keeping his legs still and finally sitting up, reaching for his own jacket. “If you say so.”

“I think he thought we knew,” Ren says, taking a deep breath and exhaling with a small furrow between his brows. “Exacerbating the offense.”

“Well, I won’t be disagreeing,” Hux says, folding the jacket into quarters and dropping it to the floor, then reaching for the shirt underneath.

“No,” Ren says, his eyes drawing downward and seeming to almost burrow with their intensity. His voice has lost most of its irritating, deliberate ambiguity as well, dropping straight into preoccupied.

Hux knows he isn’t much to look at, keeping himself battle fit but not remotely strapping, so the attention from someone who is definitely reinforces the ego. He stretches as he pulls the shirt off his shoulders, perhaps a little affectedly, and smirks when one of the hands starts to move, drifting up his hip and further until curled along his ribs. 

“Passable, then,” Hux says, reaching down and grabbing the hand around his ribs, encouraging it higher until it teases a pink, perking nipple.

Ren glances upward, lips tightening for a short moment, “No different than this morning.”

Hux exhales with a low huff, bending down nearly in half from the position Ren is still holding him. He curls his elbows around the shape of Ren’s head, crowding him in, “Don’t be so sarcastic.”

Ren stares back for a long moment, then narrows his eyes, bucking up under Hux with a new sense of urgency. The hand still around Hux’s thigh curls distinctly inward, teasing against the bare impression of his hardening cock, heavy fabric a minor torture, “Pants.”

“Trousers,” Hux corrects, kicking off Ren’s hands to reluctantly rise, sidestepping the neat stack of shirt and jacket to stiffly pull off said trousers. He feels less exposed than he thinks he should, some of the last few days of forced cohabitation with Ren already eliminating decent boundaries, or perhaps it had happened before then; he’s not in any position now to muse on it.

He looks up after folding them onto the stack, finding Ren to be now similarly stripped, if mostly in a manner of lazily pushing his loose clothing to the side. Fortunately, he seems mostly preoccupied with Hux’s own hard cock, from the way his lower lip curls lewdly between his teeth, and likely doesn’t notice the quick glance Hux takes to weigh his own preconceptions.

The air in the room seems warmer, his skin flushing with every heart beat, but he’s is starting to realize maybe… this is not a good idea. It’s certainly a time to have second thoughts, already naked and currently stepping forward, feet moving and legs folding, a hand sliding up the heated inside of Ren’s muscled thigh. It isn't that he doesn't want to, still desperate for something after having a taste, but… all of the panic about cam droids and long dead obsessions with Prince Ben has him growing paranoid.

“Stop thinking,” Ren says, reaching out at the same time he turns on his side, toward Hux, and tapping three fingers at his forehead. “It’s bristling at my mind.”

“Shut it,” Hux says, curling his hand around Ren’s wrist and pushing the arm back, climbing further up on the wide bed; he’s faintly annoyed that _Ren_ has recovered so quickly after getting upset at the mere possibility, being so forward and near-affectionate.

It was practically another era the last time Hux touched another person like this, even then in the dark and half-certain it wasn’t more than a wishful fantasy, let alone had someone as eager and fit as Ren. He slides a hand up again into the scarred flesh of one muscular thigh, curious but not enough to ask, and curls his thumb into the marked dip of a hip, starting considerably when it gets taken as invitation to have his waist grabbed in a brutish grip and dragged up somewhere near his previous position, made exponentially more lewd by virtue of nudity.

Hux grinds back reflexively, the considerable slide of Ren’s cock against his ass somehow a surprise, and his skin suddenly begins prickling, though distinctly not with excitement. He leans back onto Ren’s thighs and glances down to find that Ren has flung an arm over his face, obliging himself into seeing without looking.

He takes a deep breath, blinking slowly and tipping his head. “ _Ren_.”

Ren declines to answer for a few seconds, then abruptly drops the obscuring arm and reaches forward, twisting a dry, shaky hand lightly over the sensitive skin of Hux’s cockhead, smearing the spare bead of precome down his shaft. It’s just as distracting as Ren seems to have wanted it to be, and bucking forward in the same moment he manages to draw Hux’s attention to something far less mental.

Hux exhales with a heavy breath and drops down at the apparent insistence of Ren’s remarkably discreet shoving, shifting until he’s practically kneeling over powerful thighs. He scrapes his teeth along the flushed tendons of Ren’s neck, trailing slower, softer over his collarbone. then pulling back again when he feels the hand on his cock shift markedly away. He reaches down without looking, belatedly reciprocating with a few slow pulls at Ren, feeling awkward as he has to shift his grip noticeably to include Ren’s sack with every downstroke; it feels like the fact it’s been some time since he was at this particular angle with a cock is being advertised in strobing lights.

He exhales with a start of sheepish humor when Ren shoves his hand out of the way, easily kicking up and taking both of them in hand.

“Too big everywhere, aren’t you?” Hux murmurs, thrusting forward into the enticing space between Ren’s twisting fingers and thick cock. The other of said hands tightens into an almost ruthlessly hard grip on Hux’s hip, encouraging him to keep moving with a reckless push and pull, something like a tease of more arduous endeavors, and distractingly enough to have his hips falter at the thought.

Ren grunts something, then clears his throat with a low moan, “Good?”

“Just come on,” Hux murmurs, curling the fingers of a hand loosely around Ren’s wrist to pull along in tandem. He can feel the heat building up in his blood, pressure beating against the back of his ears, and props himself up just barely at the knee as he leans forward, grabbing Ren’s red and worried lower lip between his own.

Ren groans in response, opening his mouth, his breath hot against Hux’s lips. His hips begin moving more erratically, jostling Hux in a way that should be far, far more irksome than it is, but only seems to increase the cloying fever of the room. A choked whimper is the only warning before Ren's body begins to seize, all the energy seeming poured into the jolting of his cock.

Hux pulls back in the same moment to glance down and watch as come pastes over Ren’s knuckles and out onto his abdomen in uneven lines. He's somewhat mesmerized, then brought back in the next instant when Ren has defied expectation to continue tugging at Hux’s cock, sloppily using his own come as slick with decidedly little finesse.

‘ _Unreal,’_ Ren projects without warning; the precise thought barely discernible between a mess of other emotion, scattered and unfamiliar.

Hux can feel the edge closing in on him, every drag threatening to turn from pleasure to torment. He slides his hand up with a trembling fingers to clutch at Ren’s flexing bicep, squeezing his eyes shut at the moment it all comes to a peak. The feeling seems to strike through him, and he hears, with some mortification, a long whimper that can only be from him.

He opens his eyes only after Ren’s hand has drifted off, and peeks down to watch in some mild disgust at the veritable disaster being exacerbated with the large smearing fingers wiping lewdly across Ren’s stomach. He gives with a low hum, reluctantly leaning up and reaching out to grab a stray edge of Ren’s discarded outfit.

“I rather liked this costume,” Hux sighs, using it to wipe down Ren’s stomach and wrapping it around the drifting hand, frowning at the already-sticky texture pulling back against his grip. He rubs for a few minutes, then pulls off and glances down the stains left on the dark fabric. “Shame.”

He gives another heaving sigh and climbs off, legs aching from the held position, to fall onto his back as he throws the fabric onto the ground. He’s a little sore from the lack of proper slick, but that should be negligible by the morning; a little discomfort is hardly the worst to pay after having an _actual_ partner to get him off.

“It’s probably okay,” Ren mutters, breath finally leveling, and his voice lowering into something considerably less assured than just moments earlier; the visible edge of his mouth is curled down, at contrast with his still-flushed skin. “In the waking world.”

“A _h_ ,” Hux intones, turning over on his front and pressing his face into the soft pillow, taking a deep breath as he watches Ren from the corner of his eye. He should say something kind, probably, but it would have needed to be said too long ago. “You’re so delusional, darling.”

Ren grumbles something unintelligible, then turns on his side away from Hux, curling up into his usual position. “No.”

“No?” Hux repeats with a quiet, mocking huff. He reaches out with an idle hand to drag the back of his fingers against the overheated skin of Ren’s spine, sliding over dappled skin and smooth muscle, “We’ll find out in the morning.”

~

“I didn’t mean to do that,” Ren says, his words an audible rush of something like embarrassment. It’s near the first thing he’s said all morning, discounting the harsh, presumably self-effacing mumbling that was enough to rouse Hux from the depths of sleep.

“Do what?” Hux repeats absently, pulling his regulation shirt from his regulation bag – he has never enjoyed the use of a word so much. It’s enough to distract him from the hardening shell of shame that he found himself cocooned into upon waking.

“Your hip,” Ren says, his voice seeming to get smaller; if it were from another person, it might be described as meek. “I… I grabbed too hard.”

“Oh, that,” Hux says, turning around and tilting his head at the mirror to easier look at the bruise that wraps around his hip. He had noticed it in the refresher, along with the other two, purpling and distinctly shaped, but hadn’t expected to only a few minutes later feel compelled to defend it. “I simply bruise easily. Mild hemophilia.”

Somewhat ironically, Ren’s face blanches into a shade utterly pallid, his eyes going wide.

“It would only be an issue if I were to be stabbed or something similar,” Hux assures, clasping his shirt together with some reluctance to hide the mark. He flattens each of the buttons in turn, then reaches for his sheathes and the daggers, “I think that sort of danger is the same for everyone.”

Ren tips his head, eyes darting markedly upward as he takes an oddly thin breath. “What of your face?”

“Belloc,” Hux says, lifting a hand to the badly concealed blemish that mars his cheek with a mild grimace. “Admittedly, if he’d gotten me a centimeter to the left, it would have been rather worrying.”

Ren stares for a few moments longer, and when he does speak, his voice is something like a growl. “He _hit_ you.”

“Incidental,” Hux says, keeping his voice dismissive; he hardly needs belated wrath from the very man who neglected to do his duty. “I had the upper hand.”

It seems to matter little to Ren, who keeps staring tactlessly until Hux gives up and turns around to return to the matter of the daggers. He stares at them a moment, thinking perhaps he should keep them on the outside, make them obvious to the Sovereign and her ilk, but no, that would defeat their purpose.

“We’re to meet the Sovereign at her summer palace in less than an hour,” he says, closing the buckles on his sheathes with an inhale and turning around, folding and rolling his leftover clothing, begrudgingly even the ‘gift’, and fitting it all with some minor trouble into his other bag. He grabs his data pad next, slipping it into his jacket pocket, “And you’re not even wearing your helmet.”

Ren exhales with an audible growl, summarily losing any lingering diffidence to the usual petulance, stomping around the bed and grabbing it from the side table. He shoves it on his head with a parting glare, _‘Happy?’_

“I’m never happy, Ren,” Hux says, picking up his jacket with an unusual sense of glee, feeling it fit comfortably over the shape of the daggers once he gets it over his shoulders. He may wear them even after getting back to his post, “Only satisfied.”

 _‘Smug,’_ Ren disagrees, folding his arms over his chest and looking toward the door.

Hux huffs under his breath, handing his luggage off to the service droid and opening the main door. _‘Some.’_

_‘Where is this palace?’_

_‘Roughly 4 by negative 55 degrees,’_ Hux responds, glancing through the corner of his eye.

It earns the expected reaction, Ren exhaling heavily through the modulator and tipping his head to the side, obviously doing his best to glare through the visor in his usual way. His hand curls tight at his side, as if truly offended at the condescension.

 _‘What did you expect me to say?’_ Hux asks, rolling his eyes and looking back forward with a short shake of his head. _‘Our clearance levels differ only in that I actually read my messages.’_

The waiting shuttle is surprisingly absent Gheralt or his guards, only the near oppressively silent pilot and a single servant remaining behind to tend to them. The servant nods as they pick up Hux’s small bag, then gesture to their front for Hux and Ren to enter ahead of them onto the shuttle. The inside is similarly empty and quiet, which is a welcome enough sign that Ren’s threats to Gheralt last night have had permanent effect.

 _‘You told me the Thvalians once took the eyes of their sex workers,’_ Ren begins, following Hux into the main quarters with stomping steps, breaching his second mention of the night previous with a very odd focus. _‘I wonder if they steal the voices of their staff.’_

Hux settles down on the sofa for takeoff and watches from the corner of his eye as the servant moves around, quiet like an assassin, _‘I wouldn’t be surprised. They’re not even allowed to eat until off-duty.’_

Ren sinks into the chair on the other side of the table, tilting his head enough that the sun glints off his helmet. _‘I do remember you once scolding the bridge for talking out of turn.’_

 _‘You know fully that was a completely different situation,’_ Hux responds, pinching his mouth into a thin line. He leans forward, taking an offered juice for the presumed breakfast the staff had been tasked with providing him; it’s too much to let completely go to waste. _‘Phasma and Unamo can gossip about whatever snow monster I’m sending troops off to get eaten by on their leisure time.’_

 _‘It’s a shame there wasn’t one,’_ Ren complains _,_ leaning back in his chair and gracelessly lifting his feet to the table.

Hux allows himself a short huff of laughter, then curls his lips closed again when he catches the quiet servant staring. _‘You disfigured a man less than twelve hours ago.’_

 _‘Different,’_ Ren insists, his thoughts containing a certain agility that might be called playful. 

Hux rolls his eyes, taking out his data pad and reviewing again for the imminent meeting. Pforn marked more than a few action items as important, nearly rendering the designation pointless, and Hux easily slides them off the screen will little care. He secured airspace and lenses, which was what the week’s plan called for, leaving a single action item: political bonds. He already has a plan drawn out, mostly mental, to attempt to dethrone the Sovereign with her own son; the coup was a nice idea, but the resource drain could be catastrophic in a system of this advanced development.

 _‘You appreciated my being a prostitute,’_ Ren starts, turning his head languidly to the side and aiming the visor at Hux. The words are unyielding, but threaded with a noticeable disquiet, such a surprise as they are from nowhere, ‘ _Didn’t you?’_

Hux pauses an absent drink halfway to his lips and hastily tries to reorder his thoughts in with such a question, swallowing hard at the sudden, painful shock at the back of his throat. He knows Ren enjoyed it, didn’t he? He couldn’t be that good of an actor – a miscalculation this left of truth would be... utterly ruinous. _‘If you’re saying you only went to bed with me because you considered it a job, Kylo Ren, I will justifiably murder you with the very weapons you gave me.’_

“No,” Ren yelps aloud, the word seeming full of power all its own. It certainly startles the servant, who drops a crystal glass with a splintering shatter onto the lacquered floor, leading Ren to glance backward with tension rising along his shoulders. _‘You did say you. Appreciated it. The **costume**.’_

Hux stares for a long moment, then sets down his drink before it can fall from his suddenly unreliable grip. _‘I did.’_

Ren takes an audible breath, his presence flickering in and out with incomprehensible feeling before abruptly forming into actual words. _‘If I found something similar, would you – Repeat.’_

Hux takes a long breath, a particular tension loosening from shoulders that have been tight since he woke, and feeling an exasperated, yet relieved urge to roll his eyes. It hadn’t been _regret_ steeling Ren’s usual tactlessness all morning, but his own obstinacy – it shouldn’t be this much of a surprise, and yet. _‘It wasn’t some deviant… We **discussed** this.’_

‘ _Hardly,’_ Ren snaps, the word little more than a quick whip of mental pressure.

Hux eyes those stalwartly crossed arms for another long moment, entertaining for a few seconds the idea of bringing up that he definitely remembers ordering Ren not to be stroppy. _‘You alleged last night to Gheralt that you found my company like a… pleasure.’_

Ren looks appropriately taken aback at the mention, helmet tipping to the side and shoulders raising defensively to his ears. _‘Loosely.’_

 _‘I suffer something similar,’_ Hux confesses in a stilted rush, gesturing shortly upward in some attempt to diffuse the weight of the words. He shrugs with a single shoulder and glances toward the viewport in the ensuing moments with a sense of trepidation. _‘Sometimes bitterly, and often reluctantly, but I do. I didn't make some special case, or whatever nonsense you're attempting to rationalize, I've only been ignoring my own... similar suffering.'_

Ren is worryingly silent for far too long, then exhales with a cautious rush of some unidentifiable, if vaguely familiar emotion. _‘You're using that word wrong.’_

 _‘What if I mentioned that you’ve turned out to be very favorably proportioned?’_ Hux asks, catching the twitch of shoulders just barely and feeling bolstered by the mild humor. He turns to recollect his drink and takes a long sip, tilting his head with a deliberately slow drag of his eyes downward, _‘Making any choice of dress rather moot for this alleged repeat.’_

Ren scoffs heavily though the vocoder, sinking lower into the chair. His overlarge boots jostle a porcelain tray of pastries into the juice decanter, threatening to shove it all over onto both the floor and Hux’s lap. _‘You’re deflecting sentiment by being vulgar. It makes you ugly.’_

Hux raises his brows, attempting to look wounded, _‘Did you not want honesty?'_

The summer palace is, it seems, a short distance from Giyar, and the shuttle lands only a disappointing handful of minutes later. A gleaming white stone fountain greets Hux through the viewport, along with the relatively comforting sight of a First Order shuttle on the other landing pad. It means that Pforn is probably here, but that is also sign enough that he can return to the comforting expanse of open space in only a few short hours.

 _‘Have I told you how much I hate natural gravity?’_ Hux asks, stepping down onto the firm ground with a sideways glance to the exchange between the Thvala staff and a trooper. He watches his bag get carefully handed between them, and feels another layer of tension fall from his shoulders.

Ren doesn’t answer for a long moment, as if truly thinking, _‘No.’_

 _‘I do,’_ Hux continues, gesturing outward with a thought to catching the power keeping them down in this damp jungle. _‘I dislike feeling ten kilos heavier here, yet six lighter on Starkiller. It's a stress on the body.'_

A standing guard at the foot of an expansive staircase directs them to the left, down a long hall that is remarkably similar to the one in the other palace. It stands likely that the meeting room is in the same wing, probably the same basic area, which is a mild comfort against becoming lost in this giant white and gilded monstrosity.

 _‘It varies in deep space, as well,’_ Ren argues, every word practically lilting with intended mockery.

 _‘Don’t be disagreeable for the sake of it,’_ Hux retorts, scoffing under his breath and glaring out the wide windows that look down on the courtyards. The First Order shuttle is all well, but there is something conspicuously absent from the row of landing pads. _‘Just call for the Upsilon.’_

Ren lifts an open hand, gesturing upward at the ornate ceiling with tetchiness heavy on his shoulders. _‘Already on it’s way **, General**.’_

Hux tilts his head for a short moment, hesitating a beat too long before leaning into Ren’s side, pressing his hand into the space just below the edges of that tattered cowl. _‘Thank you.’_

Ren glances sideways with an obvious start, spine straightening with surprise. He remains impassive for the next few steps, _‘You’re mocking me.’_

 _‘A bit,’_ Hux agrees, tightening his hand for a quick moment before withdrawing when he catches sight of Pforn waiting next to a door.

Pforn nods shortly, standing at attention with hands at his back when he catches Hux coming down the hall. His gaze lingers long just to under Hux's eyes, enough to assume respect, then summarily remember the mottled bruise, helped along by Pforn's own mortified gasp at his own tactlessness. “General Hux! Good morning!”

“At ease, Captain,” Hux says, peeking into the meeting room and finding it nearly identical to the one at the other palace.

The most glaring difference is Gheralt, who, while still dressed impeccably and sitting at the head of the table, is visibly less confident than just days ago. His eyes dart up with a start, glancing to Hux then to Ren, pausing for a long moment before shifting his head down, mouth pressing into a tense, white line. He's clearly taken the death threat to heart, which strikes rather foolish that Hux didn't have Ren do that in the first place. 

“It is…” Pforn pauses, eyes following and widening when Ren walks in the room next to Hux, then seeming to recover with forced brightness. “Welcome, Lord Ren.”

Ren looks across the room for a long moment, then tilts his head vaguely sideways, as if he might truly whisper. _‘He sounds like the droids from last night.’_

 _‘Those droids were far more competent than this fool,’_ Hux responds, pulling out his data pad and sitting down at the table. He swipes it open, bringing up a holoscreen with the loose approximation of his remaining action items for the meeting – mostly, it’s boiled down to expelling any lingering notions of marriage to Gheralt.

He looks to the clearly anxious Gheralt, no amount of concealer able to hide the pinch of his eyes, and takes a breath, “Prince Gheralt, when – “

“General, it is tradition to keep standing until the Sovereign arrives,” Captain Pforn interrupts, leaning forward eagerly and setting his own data pad to the table.

“- _when_ your mother arrives, you are going to happily agree that you need to concentrate on your statecraft if you're going to one day replace her,” Hux continues, flattening his hands on the table and standing up again, bitterly accepting the directive. He’s hardly going to disagree with such convention out of hand, but he’d wished the disgraced _Pforn_ hadn’t been the one to correct it. “The past few days should serve as perfect example of your suitability for more than simple window dressing, and I will corroborate and endorse.”

Gheralt opens his mouth, as if to argue, only to remain blessedly silent and instead glance tellingly toward the door. The implication is founded, Sovereign Andeles hardly seeming the most open person to argument against tradition, but if she’ll fold if she wants her government to continue past this generation.

Hux lifts a hand in similar direction, bodily conceding to the reservation. “If she is resistant, then Lord Ren will change her mind with far more finesse than a broken display.”

Ren gives a derisive huff, the noise entirely too loud by half through the modulator. “Condescending ass.”

“Do not undermine me here,” Hux snaps, lowering his hand and curling it tight over the other on the table, turning sideways as he leans in near Ren with a with a sneer. He cannot believe Ren would choose _now_ to start audibly participating, “Unless you've discovered a sudden place in that black heart to _share_.”

Ren looks away, lifting his chin somewhere at the window, “I would still just kill him.”

Gheralt takes a markedly loud inhale from across the table.

Hux scoffs in disbelief, releasing one of his hands to gesture dismissively, “Oh please, you enjoy sulking far too much to miss an opportunity for it.”

A quiet cough interrupts the tirade, “General Hux, the matter – “

“What did I say about your place, _Captain,”_ Hux says, hardening his voice and watching Pforn practically crumple in his seat. “You have hardly the room to displease me further.”

The Sovereign saves Pforn any further scolding by bursting in the door with a pair of guards making sure she doesn’t need to lift a single finger, her robes sweeping behind her in a twist of colors that are surely meant to emulate Giyar’s jungle. She alights on the chair at the head of the table, eyes drifting across the room and pausing on Ren with a certain furious twitch before her face relaxes back into a false gentleness.

“Good morning,” the Sovereign says, “I’ve received word that your trip has gone well.”

“It was certainly fruitful,” Hux agrees, tipping his head and finally sitting in the chair as the Gheralt and Pforn do the same across the table. He tightens his jaw when he doesn’t hear a similar noise to his left, and reaches out to jab Ren in the thigh, relaxing slightly when there's a loud slump downward in the next moment.

“It may be rude,” the Sovereign says, gesturing to the various data pads lighting up the room. “However, I would like to address the most glaring matter: your engagement to my son."

“My answer remains the same, Sovereign,” Hux says, keeping his voice level, but resolute and unapologetic. He meets the Sovereign's sharp look with one of his own, nodding without looking at Gheralt's diminutive, almost-hunched form. “I will not be marrying your Prince, but I do look forward to working with him in future First Order endeavors. He was exceedingly competent.”

“Oh?” The Sovereign says, raising a dark, sparkling brow. 

“Yes, I was quite impressed by Prince Gheralt’s diplomacy at his events,” Hux says, angling his voice upward with pleasant surprise. He takes a glance sideways, as if agreeing with some sentiment of Pforn's, who has been sitting frozen like some statue since the Sovereign walked in, “He is certainly well-loved by many… political voices of of the system.” 

 _‘Such specificity, General,’_ Ren adds, his thoughts curling in next to Hux’s, tinged with apparent humor. _‘Interesting.’_

 _‘I don’t recall asking for your sarcasm,’_ Hux responds, keeping his eyes on the Sovereign; his mouth in a neutral line of amiability.

The Sovereign gives a low hum, still thoughtful; she may think this is some mild chink in Hux's rejection. “I am very pleased to hear that, General."

“I believe we agreed to discuss secondary alternatives to your… traditions,” Hux says, dragging his hand over his data pad’s holoscreen and sliding to an utterly pointless chart. He thinks it may be of – yes, fuel consumptions of the _Finalizer,_ but it looks busy, and he needs her to believe he's projected outcomes of his options. “I have realized an option you may find a proper substitute.”

The Sovereign expression falls slightly less amiable, head turning marginally to send an icy stare to Gheralt. She takes a shallow breath, looking back to Hux and gesturing with a gently upturned hand. “Proceed, General Hux.”

“I am in a position to put your son in the Senate, Sovereign,” Hux says, lifting his chin and catching the Sovereign’s eyes, raising a brow with what he hopes is the perfect degree of suggestion. Her own loss of position is mildly suspect, thriving after Palpatine’s dissolution by taking up the mantel of Sovereign after the coincidental death of her elder sister, but her family hardly got in the door after the Empire’s fall. “I believe, and I think you would agree, having the heir to your House in Hosnia would far outweigh him languishing from boredom on my star destroyer.”

 _‘How will you be doing that?’_ Ren asks, his words almost insultingly sardonic.

“It would be an advantage, yes,” The Sovereign says, slowly folding her hands together on top of the table, eyes going toward the middle distance. “It would certainly have similar effect of allying my House to the Centrists.”

 _‘You, obviously,_ ’ Hux responds, nodding along with the Sovereign despite mostly ignoring the particulars of her musing. _‘The present Thvalian Senator can be taken out.  I’m not even sure who it is – Rendoira?’_

“How would you do this, General?” Pforn asks, blinking upward with what seems like honest incredulity.

“I have many close connections within the Senate,” Hux says, narrowing his eyes at Pforn and tempted to ask Ren if he could possibly unobtrusively give someone a stroke. He looks to the Sovereign, tipping his head with a conscious smirk, “I have already spoken to the Senator of Arkanis about garnering benefactors. They were very interested in allying with a family so steeped with history as yours.”

Ren leans back in his chair, giving a low sigh that has both the Andeles’ glancing sideways at him, _‘You’re outright lying.’_

 _‘We don’t have to actually deliver,’_ Hux responds, determinedly tipping his head with a friendly smirk at the Sovereign’s thin frown. _‘I didn’t say when it would happen.’_

“I admit, General, you have me at an impasse,” the Sovereign says, lifting a hand and pressing a few thoughtful fingers to the hard edge of her cheek. She presses her lips tight together, then hums, shaking her head slow, and suddenly smiles, although visibly reluctant. “If you were part of a core House, it would be another matter, but… It would be more beneficial to have my son representing me directly in Hosnia.”

Hux raises an eyebrow, swiping three times on his holoscreen without looking, then turning it sideways. “Is the alteration to our deal deemed appropriate, then?”

The Sovereign’s eyes drop, a single eyebrow going up a moment later, presumably after reading the heading of their previous contract. “You are a very goal oriented man, General Hux. No attempts to beguile me further?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Hux says, flicking his fingers upward and to the bottom of the document; he had written a proposed final draft early yesterday morning, and is rather satisfied with it. He’s even more satisfied when the Sovereign gives a short hum and presses her thumb to the reader, prompting her name and Basic signature to appear next to his.

“It has been lovely working with you, General.”

“My people should contact you about the Senate campaign within days,” Hux says, tipping his head and watching as the Sovereign stands from her chair. He glances sideways in the next instant, observing the guard stand, then draws himself to his feet in what he can only assume is proper courtesy.

Pforn makes a put-upon noise, trying to jump in before Hux can part ways – to futile effect. “General, I wanted to – “

“I will be on a very dull trip for the next seven cycles on _Finalizer_ , Captain,” Hux says, gathering his data pad and tucking it back into his jacket. “Message me.”

 _‘Dull?’_ Ren prompts, still sitting in his chair and appearing to be watching the exit.  

Hux takes a few steps away from him, refusing to look back in any manner that might be caught by their remaining onlookers. ‘ _What happened to that fetching insecurity?_ ’

Ren is unresponsive for a long moment, ‘ _Repressed_.’

 _‘I find it difficult to believe you can repress anything, darling_ ,’ Hux responds, waiting for the literal royal procession to follow the Sovereign down toward her presumed wing before taking his own steps forward. The first breath of mildly perfumed air in the hall is accompanied by a feeling as if that heavy weight upon his shoulders has been lifted and replaced with wings; victory is such a heady drug.

“Is that your shuttle, General?” Gheralt asks, his voice breaking oddly through the silent atmosphere. “Or Lord Ren’s, I mean.”

“Ah, yes,” Hux says, stepping up just next to the wide bay window across from the conference exit, where Gheralt has paused to overlook the landing pads. The _Upsilon_ has landed during the meeting between the two other shuttles, and the trooper from Pforn’s detail can be seen standing awkwardly at the side, peering into the darkened cockpit. “I designed it long before I met him, but I think it suits him.”

“It is certainly fits your organization,” Gheralt says, his voice contemplative, but not out-and-out insulting, which is rare when talk is of the _Upsilon._  

“Similarly conceived, it is purely military,” Hux says, leaning out the window for a look, then stepping back on his heel. He is surprised Gheralt even remarked on it, though he does seem proud of that gaudy Corellian model, which with regards to the fact certain elements are stolen, maintains a rather good design. “The shields are real-time adaptive and intelligent, and the flight wings themselves can retract and spread at the most delicate direction of AI or pilot, facilitating expert maneuverability and balance in all conditions, but especially the tenuous environment of uninhabitable or warring space.”

“Oh,” Gheralt intones, visibly taken aback as he stares up at Hux. “How very... admirable?” 

“Although, what am I saying? You probably noticed first is that it is incredibly low profile,” Hux says, scoffing to himself and then tucking his data pad under an elbow. He brings up two hands and squishes his palms in near each other, gesturing across his middle. “It is the perfect stealth shuttle, equipped with specialized sensor jammers and reflector arrays, and could easily land undetected even on General Organa's front doorstep with her none the wiser.”

Gheralt’s eyes flicker downward, watching the movement as his brows slowly raise. “I see.”

“Of course, mostly Lord Ren or I use it,” Hux says, dropping his hands and catching the data pad before it can fall in an easy slip of his hand. “The First Order proper wasn’t keen to mass produce them.”

Gheralt gives a tonal hum, blinking slowly and looking back up to Hux’s face. “Why? You seem very… fervent about the pragmatism.”

“Ah,” Hux intones, glancing out the window once more and feeling a mild spike dig straight into his lower sternum as he stares at the waiting _Upsilon_. “It was deemed over-engineered. I… agreed. In the end. The only reason this one exists is Ren found the plans.”

“General,” Ren interrupts, stepping up between them and giving an unnecessarily grumbling exhale. An evident hand seems to hover just over Hux’s lower back just before disappearing, “We need to go.”

 _‘I don’t take orders from you,’_ Hux responds, even as he steps away on his heel with a final parting nod at Gheralt; if all goes to plan, the next time they meet will be... never, which is rather likely if Gheralt makes it to Hosnia in the coming months.

Ren gives some mental approximation of a scoff, hardly subtle as he crowds in too close to Hux as they walk toward the main entrance. _‘Let him wallow alone in this late revelation of how to get your attention.'_

~

“Thank you for that update, Captain Phasma,” Hux says, folding up her document with a flick of his fingers and pointing it at his data pad. He glances sideways, looking for the next name, “Petty Officer Thanisson, I believe you have something to present next?” 

Thanisson nods hesitantly, standing and clearing his throat. His eyes dart up and to Hux, then back down to his data pad, his throat clearing again as he reaches up to scratch behind his ear, then shakily scrolling on something down his screen.

Hux leans back in his chair, ending his next breath with a quiet tut that has Thanisson curling in on himself. “Is there an issue, Petty Officer?”

“I apologize, sir,” Thanisson says, blinking with a distinct air of apprehension, throwing a heat map onto the holodisplay with a hesitant trace of his fingers. “My action item for this meeting is as follows: equatorial mining has – ”

“He thinks I’m going to eat him,” Ren interrupts, voice echoing across the long room with a particularly obvious, needless Force influence. It has what can only be the desired effect with much of the room seizing with nerves, only a few unaffected, most notably Phasma, who closes her eyes and exhales in visible annoyance. It’s unsurprising – she’s one of the few who actually works with him.

Hux raises a brow, tilting his head slightly to glance out the corner of his eye. Ren sits in the port window, lounging in the wide sill with one leg curled up near the transparisteel and the other foot flat on the floor; he looks like he’s doing an imitation of some vagrant he saw in a holovid. The absurdity of the position doesn’t seem to register among the rest of the meeting, which is something of a frustration.

“Kill him,” Ren amends, tilting his head back toward the port window. “Mundane.”

“Indeed,” Hux agrees, looking back to the table and nodding shortly, “I know it’s easy to forget, but Lord Ren is also your commander. Continue the meeting.”

“Yes, sir,” Thanisson says, reaching out and hesitantly tapping at the first item on the agenda. It bursts into a document that spreads across the table, lit up with a worrying amount of errors.

“Oh, and he’ll be acting as lie detector. We have had some recent leaks,” Hux adds, leveling his tone with as much apathy as possible, watching the shiver of unease spread across shoulders in a physical wave. He gestures downward sharply and taps at the document on the table, then reins in a smirk when half the personnel flinches in their seats. “The mine, Petty Officer?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really like the _Upsilon_ 's design, and totally made up everything about it being like 'singular' for my own reasons regarding sequels that may or may not come out.
> 
> Remember when I said I split it because I didn't want the last chapter to be 14k? Yeah. I just want to be done with it now.

**Author's Note:**

> I started this _ages_ ago, but I still have no clue why - like I said in an earlier story, I keep writing marriage and Kylo Ren breaking shit. 
> 
> And my [Tumblr](http://ezlebe.tumblr.com).


End file.
